









LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 


Chap...Ct^Copyright No. 

UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


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JOHNNIE 



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Johnnie 

E. O. Laughlin 



JVith Illustrations 

From Photographs 

Taken from Life 




Indianapolis and Kansas City 

Co. 

Mdcccxcix 









^^806 

Copyright 1898 


THE BOWEN-MERRILL COMPANY 



^OOOPtps RECEiVtO- 

Printed by 

Braunworth, Munn & Barber, 
Brooklyn,N. Y., U.S. A. 



DEDICATED TO 


JOHNNIE 

Whose surname may be supplied by the reader 
from the throng of other Johnnies, — ^justsuch 
happy-hearted little youngsters as was this 
one of mine. The Author. 


I 


PREFATORY 


The matter presented in this little volume 
has assumed its present form and dress with 
those mingled feelings of bravado and timid- 
ity which afflict the boy when he first appears 
in long pants. The distress of such a boy 
becomes the more evident the more it is con- 
cealed. He is painfully conscious of being 
mostly arms and legs — and clothes. If he 
swings along carelessly, he is afraid folks will 
accuse him of “putting on;” if he adopts a 
stiff and dignified manner, as best suits his 
attire, he fears to appear awkward; and, in 
any case, he is apt to be overtaken at last by 
the comfortless conviction that people are not 
noticing him at all. With these emotions and 
others, the author makes his bow. 



i 


CONTENTS 


Page. 

I. The Boy’s Debut, 1 

II. Teials and Teibulations, 10 

III. Some Boyish Deeams 19 

IV. As Fathee op the Man 28 

V. The Last Day op School, 37 

VI. Vacation and Choees, 47 

VII. The Hieed Hand and “ Ha’nts,” .... 68 

VIII. Being Sice, 69 

IX. A Rueal Sunday, ........ 77 

X. The County Faie . 85 

XI. In Wintee, . 95 

XII. Cheistmas . 104 

XIII. The Ploughman’s Weaey Way, . . . .Ill 

XIV. “Budding,” 123 

XV. The Bane op Bashpulnbss, 134 

XVI. The Rally 144 

XVII. A SoEEOWPUL Denouement, 164 

XVIII. A Book Woem 163 

XIX. The Boy Inventoe, 172 

XX. When His Mothee Died, ..... 179 

XXI. The Fledgling’s Flight, ,187 

XXII. Lipe in a Geeat City, 196 

XXIII. A Mispit, . 206 

XXIV. The Mieacle op Maeeiagb, 213 

XXV. The Beand New Boy, ....... 222 


“O wonderland of wayward childood ! what 
An easy, breezy realm of summer calm 
And dreamy gleam and gloom and bloom and balm 
Thou art ! — The Lotus-Land the poet sung — 

It is the Child-World, when the heart beats young.” 

— Riley. 



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JOHNNIE 



I 


THE boy’s debut 

It was in the morning of the first day of 
school. The boys had collected in the far 
corner of the yard, where they were industri- 
ously taking turns at wrestling with the “new 
boy” with the intent of determining once for 
all his proper place in the social scale of the 
district. The girls, in blue-checked and red- 
plaid pinafores, were grouped upon the stile, 
their arms sweetly encircling one another’s 
waists, while they made scornful remarks 
about the “new girl,” a shy, frail midget in 
drooping black sunbonnet, who stood sadly 
apart grasping a battered dinner-pail, her 
eyes fixed upon the ground. 

“Well, ’pon my word, here comes an- 
other!” exclaimed one of the larger girls, 
glancing up the road, “who can it be? I 
thought everybody was here.” 

I 


THE BOY’S DEBUT 


No one was actually in sight as yet; but far 
up the road there approached a revolving, 
pyramidal pillar of dust, such as only a school- 
boy or a run-away horse could produce. On 
it came, swaying and wavering like a minia- 
ture whirlwind, and the girls went gingerly 
out to meet it. As it drew near, the wraith of 
a round, smiling face could be discerned, a 
faint nucleus floating in the midst of the yel- 
low nimbus. Then a dust-covered waist was 
revealed below the face, and, finally, two tiny 
twinkling feet. The nucleus suddenly halted 
opposite the school-house, and, as the dust 
dissolved and drifted away, a fixed and mask- 
like grin took the place of the smile. It was 
another new scholar, and the girls immedi- 
ately gathered about him with the curiosity 
of fawns and women. 

‘T believe it’s Mrs. Winkle’s little boy,” 
observed one. “What is your name, dear?” 

“Jawnnie Winkle, ’n I’m six years old,” he 
recited promptly with automatic solemnity, 
putting on the grinning mask again with a 
smirk as soon as he finished. His mother 
had drilled him all morning upon this phrase 
2 


1 


THE BOY’S DEBUT 


SO that he might properly introduce himself 
to the teacher, and he had repeated it with 
every step as he came careening down the 
road. The bevy of girls pressed closer, and 
one bent over and tried to kiss him. Without 
changing his expression he “ducked” and 
dodged through the phalanx of skirts with 
the celerity of a weasel. Stopping at some 
distance he suddenly thrust his hand into his 
pocket and brought forth a panting, half- 
dead toad. 

“Say, this’ll make warts!” he exclaimed 
with dilating eyes. 

“Why Johnnie Winkle!” cried the girls in 
dismay. “Throw that nasty thing away! 
Ain’t you ashamed?” 

“I don’t keer,” he laughed, “I like ’em, 
an’ I’m goin’ to have warts on both hands 
an’ on my toes, too,” and sitting down in 
the middle of the road he proceeded to, rub 
the batrachian over his feet. Then there 
came a jangle of bells and a pell-mell rush for 
the school-room . When, a few moments later, 
the teacher looked up in the full glow of her 
new-found dignity, her subjects had all pre- 
3 


THE BOY’S DEBUT 


empted their claims. Every back seat had 
from two to four occupants, and the fore- 
ground contained only Johnnie and the new 
girl, who in their innocence had taken a seat 
side by side directly under her nose. 

It was Johnnie’s first appearance — his ini- 
tial journey out into the world. Heretofore 
every bit of wisdom he had acquired had been 
nursed from his mother’s breast, and all his 
naughtiness had arisen spontaneously from 
within ; but now his first great epoch had ar- 
rived, and henceforth he was to win the wis- 
dom of the world by his own effort and be- 
come familiar with wickedness by contact 
with life. It was with such regretful reflec- 
tions that his mother had started him school- 
ward that morning and then gone sobbing 
into the house. It was with the shade of a 
similar thought, too, that the teacher looked 
down into the depths of his blue eyes as he 
grinned shyly up at her; but Johnnie himself 
was oppressed by no dismal forebodings. His 
mind was completely occupied with the nov- 
elties and wonders about him. His name and 
age were soon successfully imparted to the 
4 


THE BOY’S DEBUT 


teacher, and this having been impressed upon 
him as the paramount duty to be performed, 
he felt himself free to look about. The huge 
blackboards and gay-colored maps upon the 
wall, the queer seat he occupied, the teacher, 
the pupils, the droning stillness, the cracks in 
the floor, the toad in his pocket, all drew his 
attention by turns. 

Gradually the steady monotony of school 
life completely possessed him, and the day 
grew long and drowsy. Little twinges of 
homesickness contorted his features towards 
evening, but he was brave, and would have 
held out firmly except for an untoward cir- 
cumstance. The toad, which he had secretly 
cherished in his pocket all day, died, and at 
recess an older boy informed him gravely that 
this disaster would cause his father’s cows to 
give bloody milk. Such a distressing calam- 
ity was too much for his already tremulous 
emotions, and he broke down. Kind words 
on the part of the big girls were unavailing; 
even the gentle teacher could not comfort 
him. 

‘T want to go-o-o home!” he sobbed, and 

5 


THE BOY’S DEBUT 


home he went. Long and weary was the way. 
The very dust seemed heavy and cheerless, 
and he would have cried all the way but that 
he was alone. The most lavish boy will not 
waste many tears on the desert air. Once he 
thought he saw a snake, and after that he im- 
agined it was trailing close at his heels, thus 
adding a new terror to his burden. As he 
came by the pasture he noticed the cows 
calmly munching grass, apparently unmindful 
of the dire spell upon them, and the tears 
started afresh as he thought of their blame- 
less innocence and his own guilt. He said 
nothing about the true cause of his perturba- 
tion at home, but after milking-time ex- 
amined the crocks with stealthy care. No 
blood could be detected, yet his faith in the 
potency of the murdered toad was unshaken. 
It is the boy’s characteristic to believe strange 
things steadfastly where he can not prove, or 
where he can disprove. The bona fide ap- 
pearance of several warts upon his hands 
within the week demonstrated the power of 
the living creature beyond perad venture. 

The melancholy and somewhat unheroic 
6 


THE BOY’S DEBUT 


ending of his first day at school made John- 
nie resolve never to go again. But he was 
forcefully persuaded to reconsider the matter 
next morning and he set out once more with 
a bold heart. 

Thereafter he speedily developed into a 
genuine school-boy — a species of urchin dis- 
tinctively and everlastingly differing from the 
home-boy. That he acquired knowledge can 
not be denied, but that he made any con- 
scious effort to do so is extremely doubtful. 
The average small boy in school spends one- 
fifth of his time looking out at the window, 
one-fourth in dreaming and one-half in mis- 
cellaneous mischief. The remainder is de- 
voted to his studies. 

As time went on, Johnnie, being a boy of 
some native originality, dreamed all sorts of 
things and invented several new forms of mis- 
chief. One of his favorite ways of amusing him- 
self was to borrow a tremendous “jargaphy” 
from one of the older girls and study its illustra- 
tions or make imaginary journeys across the 
maps, which he vaguely knew represented the 
big world outdoors. As he became better 
7 


THE BOY’S DEBUT 


versed in geographical matters, he learned that 
England was a red country, that Germany was 
blue and that Italy was boot-shaped and 
green. He discovered yellow and purple and 
beautiful pink countries also here and there, 
and pictured their marvelous radiance to 
himself by the hour. When the contempla- 
tion of these wonders grew tiresome, the huge 
book made a splendid screen behind which 
he could retire to indulge in pleasant diver- 
sions. 

Johnnie made remarkable progress in the 
art of reading. Within a few weeks he could 
read quite as well off the book as on. After 
noting the pictorial part of the lesson for an 
instant, he would look towards the ceiling 
and chant, ‘ ‘The — cat is — on the — mat ; ” or, 
fixing his eyes upon the teacher exclaim em- 
phatically, “I see a fat hen!” 

Spelling was a particularly delightful vocal 
exercise to him, and he would wriggle and 
squirm and twist his fingers ecstatically as he 
sang, “sa-ty, cat, ba-ty, bat, ra-ty, rat, 
ta-ty, tat, za-ty, zat” — and he could have 
gone still farther if the alphabet had held out. 

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THE BOY’S DEBUT 


Penmanship he found more difficult. The 
arbitrary way in which “pot-hooks” had to 
be made perplexed him ; and in following the 
elusive copy it was necessary for him to call 
into play every muscle in his body, contort- 
ing his toes and twisting his tongue convul- 
sively with each right or left curve. 

In the main, school life was running smooth- 
ly enough for Johnnie; but, alas, he had yet 
to experience his first fight, his first flogging 
and his first embryonic love affair. 


9 


II 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 

Johnnie, being a very important member 
of a small family, was somewhat spoiled. A 
few days at school sufficed to indicate a cer- 
tain unseemly air of pride and superiority 
about him. This was evinced more espe- 
cially in his manners and general appearance. 
Instead of the blue “hickory” shirt and jeans 
trousers of his mates, he wore a starched cam- 
bric waist and cloth knickerbockers. His 
face was clean and his hair combed each 
morning. Moreover, now and then he used 
strange, grammatical forms of speech. Once 
he said, “I saw a bird-nest.” Whereupon 
he was greeted by the jeering query, “Did 
ye saw it clean in two?” Ah, woefully out 
of place is boyish aristocracy in the demo- 
cratic public school ! 

His peculiarities came more and more into 
lO 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


notice as time ‘passed, and the other boys 
took to calling him “girly.” They also 
made faces at him and thumped him and 
wallowed him in the dirt for his pride’s sake. 
Being by nature non-combatant, Johnnie put 
up with this contumely in meekness, for some 
time, answering jeers with grins and spiteful 
words with silent tears ; but there came a day 
when forbearance grew exhausted. Jimmy 
Jenks proved to be the last straw. Jimmy 
was a little wisp of impudence and vicious- 
ness of Johnnie’s own age, but belonging to 
the opposite extreme of Boydom. He had 
the cheeks of a pig, the beady eyes of a rat 
and a suggestively Simian occiput, mounted 
by a shock of bristling red hair. With these 
conglomerate features, his mental and moral 
attributes corresponded to a nicety. It was 
one recess that he made his first and last at- 
tack upon Johnnie. Johnnie was in the best 
of humors as he approached the group of 
boys behind the school building and breath- 
lessly began to introduce what he expected 
would be a delightful bit of information with : 

“Say!” 


11 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


“Aw, say ’t yourself, yeVe got yer mouth 
open,” drawled Jimmy, stepping forward. 

Johnnie’s mouth immediately closed droop- 
ingly. 

“Ye’re a purty feller, durn ye,” continued 
Jimmy, still advancing, “an’ ye darsn’ take 
it up!” 

Johnnie backed away and the whole crowd 
began hooting him and urging his adversa- 
ry on. 

“Cowardy! Cowardy-calf 1 ” they cried, 
and “that’s right, Reddy; give it to him!” 

“I double dare ye,” exclaimed Jimmy 
scornfully, “an’ if ye’ll take a double dare, 
ye’ll steal a hog an’ eat the hair!” 

Johnnie was growing pale and restless. He 
dug his toes into the ground and clenched his 
hands. Jimmy leaned forward and valiantly 
tapped him on the cheek. Then Johnnie fled, 
Jimmy was at his heels, and a hilarious yell 
went up from the other boys as they joined in 
the chase. Suddenly they brought up at the 
back fence, and Johnnie was compelled to 
face his foe. Further retreat was impossible. 

“Look out now, Reddy; I’m goin’ to 
12 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


fight,’’ warned Johnnie; and fight he did. 
There was not much science in the battle, but 
there was a great deal of fury. All the jibes 
and slights and snubs of many days welled up 
in Johnnie’s breast, and made a hero of him. 
Jimmy was thrown to the ground, was chug- 
ged, was pinched and slapped and finally sat 
upon in the region of the stomach and 
churned. 

“Now, I guess you’ll behave yourself,” ob- 
served Johnnie, pausing astride his victim. 
Then came the teacher. 

“Boys! Boys!” she shrieked; and the 
battle was ended. 

“Recalled me names!” bawled Jimmy, 
when the trouble was under investigation be- 
hind closed doors that evening. 

“What did he call you, James?” asked the 
teacher. 

‘ ‘Why, he-he cussed an’ called me R-r-red- 
dy.” 

“Johnnie, what have you to say to this?” 

“Nothin’.” 

“You may step this way, Johnnie,” came 
the stern command. 


13 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


The boy outside at the key-hole clapped 
his hands softly as he whispered to his mates, 
“By Hoky, Girly’s game! He ain’t even 
whimpered.” 

Whack, whack, whack went the whip with- 
in. Then there was a lull, but no sound of 
sobs could be heard. 

“Now it’s Reddy’s turn,” said the boy 
expectantly, 

“O teacher, O — boo-hoo — I couldn’t help 
it — he pitched onto me, — Oh, my back’s aw- 
ful sore an’ I got biles on my legs. Oh, please, 
please don’t, teacher, — ” thus wailed Jimmy 
and the boy at the key-hole danced gleefully 
until pushed aside by a companion, when he 
rolled on the grass and hugged himself and 
kicked up his heels. 

Johnnie Winkle was straightway placed up- 
on a pedestal by his admiring school-mates, 
and the porcine Jimmy became his high 
priest. But there was a sorrowful sequel to 
the flogging. Johnnie’s mother had often 
assured him that if he ever got a whipping at 
school he would get another at home. This 
threat caused him to be very reticent about 

14 



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TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


the affair, and his silence might have saved 
him had not his cousin, Elmira Mulkins,gone 
home with him on Friday night. She was a 
girl of confidential ways. She confidentially 
told Johnnie on the way home that she would 
say nothing about his trouble, and then confi- 
dentially informed Mrs. Winkle of the whole 
affair. A double punishment was the result. 
The long-suffering Johnnie was whipped for 
getting whipped at school, and sent to bed 
supperless for not telling about it. And it all 
happened because he had resented an unpro- 
voked insult. 

The boy’s sense of justice is very keen. 
When punished for downright remissness he 
accepts it as a matter of course, but one sin- 
gle “lick amiss” puts him out of joint with 
the entire system of domestic government — 
legislative, judicial and executive. Johnnie’s 
state of mind, as he limped off to bed, was 
desperate. So rebellious was his mood that 
he deliberately omitted saying his prayer, and 
went to bed without washing his feet. He 
kicked all the cover off the bed, and had a 
notion to die. There was some consolation 

15 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


in picturing his mother’s grief and the dis- 
tress of his teacher when he should be dis- 
covered next morning, beaten and starved 
and frozen to death. But so overwrought was 
his childish imagination that he soon passed 
from the mere conception to the absolute con- 
viction of impending dissolution. Then he 
grew frightened. Pouncing out of bed he re- 
peated his “Now I lay me down to sleep” 
anxiously on penitent knees. This solemn 
duty having been performed he felt more 
calm, and once more took up the thread of 
vengeful thoughts. 

Probably his wounded spirit would take its 
upward flight about midnight, when the house 
was still and all were sleeping; but in case it 
did not — in case he should open his eyes up- 
on the cruel world again to-morrow, he re- 
solved to run away. It had come to this. 
There was no use in trying to be a good boy 
in a community where the wicked were par- 
doned, while the upright were trodden in the 
dust. He searched through his meager knowl- 
edge of geography for a clime that would suit 
him, and finally hit upon Ethiopia. He would 

i6 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


take a box of shoe polish along, and blacking 
his face, become a fierce little cannibal boy 
and a heathen, and if missionaries from dark 
America came fooling around he would help 
eat ’em. 

With this soothing reflection he fell asleep. 
He proved to be still alive next morning, and 
so very hungry that he decided to take break- 
fast once more with his obdurate parents. 

But he remained silent and sullen, and 
slipped the shoe polish into his pocket omi- 
nously on the first opportunity. Before go- 
ing, however, he concluded to give cousin 
Elmira a crushing farewell. 

“You’ll be sorry for what you done ’fore 
long, Smarty,” he began reproachfully as 
soon as he found her alone. 

“Now, Johnnie,” replied the girl tearfully, 
“I didn’t mean to — to — ” 

“Yes you did. D’ye see that?” and he 
produced the box of blacking. “That’s to 
black my face with when I git to be a wild 
cannibal,” and he tried to look terrible. 

“Oh, Johnnie Winkle!” 

“Yes — I’m goin’ to run off,” he went on 

2 17 


TRIALS AND TRIBULATIONS 


desperately, “Tm goin’ to Ethiopia an’ kill 
an’ eat people up, an’ you caused it all, too,” 
he added chokingly as the pathos of the situ- 
ation overcame him, “an’ you’re a mean 
thing ! ’ ’ 

“Johnnie Winkle, I’ll tell your maw!” 

“Yes, you’re nothin’ but a reg’lar tattle- 
tale, doggone it!” 

“Oh-h, an’ I’ll tell her you swore!” 

This dreadful slip of profanity turned the 
tide. In order to persuade Elmira not to tell 
of it, Johnnie was forced to promise — “hope 
to die” — that he would not run away — this 
time, at least. Moreover he consented to do 
penance by “playing house” with her, and 
was kind and gentle all day long. 


Ill 

SOME BOYISH DREAMS 

Childhood is emphatically a time of ac- 
tion, and yet essentially a season of dreams. 
The boy’s brain is as nimble and restless as 
his body. He is always thinking, thinking, 
and the number of facts at his command is so 
limited that he is constantly compelled to re- 
sort to fancies for mental aliment. The nine- 
year-old’s store of absolute knowledge is very 
lean. “The earth is round like a ball or an 
orange. It rotates on its axis and has a pole 
at each end.” He has seen axes and poles; 
and here his imagination steps in and draws 
the mental picture of a huge yellow orange, 
with a telegraph pole protruding from each 
end and resting on a pile of polished axes. 

Whichever way he turns it is the same. A 
few inconsistent and distorted facts are given 
him, out of which fancy proceeds to weave a 

19 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


queer fabric of consistent but erroneous con- 
ceptions. 

Day after day he puts the one great unan- 
swerable query, “Why?” He asks it of him- 
self, of the beasts of the field, the fowls of the 
air ; he enquires of his omniscient parents ; 
and the replies he receives — ^what are they? 
The seasons change, the squirrels go on sort- 
ing the good nuts from the bad, the birds 
build their nests and sing and fly away and 
his father says, “never mind!” 

Perhaps the real knowledge of his elders is 
not so far in excess of his own; but men 
have become accustomed to their own igno- 
rance, they have accepted the immutable rela- 
tionship of things, have separated the natur- 
al from the supernatural, and attained ‘ ‘poise. ” 
They have learned to crawl and abandoned 
all hope of flying. But to the boy, all things 
are strange and contradictory. To him the 
probable, the possible and the impossible are 
confusingly alike and confoundingly different. 

Out of his heterogeneous stock of fact and 
fancy, he compiles a philosophy all his own ; 
and there are few things indeed, in heaven 
20 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


and earth, of which his philosophy never 
dreams. 

No two children have quite the same code, 
or see the same visions ; but they are dream- 
ers, all. 

Johnnie Winklers mental vagaries were 
boundless. He was always wondering and 
wishing. On the way to school he saw a 
hawk so high in the air that it seemed a mere 
gray speck against the azure. He sat down 
at the roadside and followed it with envious 
eyes. He wished he could fly, and wondered 
why he could not. Why should a vicious bird 
of prey be permitted to soar among the 
clouds, while a nice little boy, who attended 
Sunday-school regularly and obeyed his par- 
ents, had to trudge along in the dust? If 
boys could not learn to fly, why was he a 
boy? Why wasn’t the hawk a. boy and the 
boy a hawk? How pleasant to be a baby- 
hawk, with nothing to do from day to day but 
lounge about in a downy nest and eat worms 
and grow feathers ! And to know that some 
day you could go sailing away, away, oh, 
everywhere! Sometimes it was a squirrel 
21 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


that he envied, sometimes a mouse. The 
happy lot of the little fledgling chicken he 
particularly coveted . H ow inexpressibly cozy 
it must be at bed-time to creep under the hen 
— mamma’s soft wing, and chirp one’s self 
asleep ! 

Having formulated the wish, the fairy wand 
of fancy would often come to his aid with 
magic make-believes. Flapping his arms, he 
would give a glad cry and go soaring down 
the road, with bird-like grace and lightness, 
finally to perch on the school-yard fence and 
plume his wings and sing. Now and then 
he would come to school in the guise of a 
horse or a cow. He was frequently trans- 
formed into a fox or a rabbit and not seldom 
impersonated a whole pack of hounds. On 
occasions he even became an engine and train 
of cars, puffing and whistling laboriously. 

Johnnie was a dreamer, with plenty of time 
and material for dreams ; but his imaginings 
were not always of this idle and extravagant 
nature. Slowly as the days passed, there 
sprouted odd little germs of sentiment within 
his breast. From the first day at school he 
22 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


had formed childish prejudices for and against 
certain of his mates ; but now he began to feel 
a strange awkward attachment for a particu- 
lar Big Girl, which was more than a mere 
liking. She was a large, luminous miss of 
about twice Johnnie’s age. Her name was 
Alice Jones, a remarkably sweet name, 
thought he. It was she who had startled him 
by an attempt to kiss him on the morning of his 
first appearance, and he was more frightened 
than ever now when he looked back at the 
occurrence. It seemed to Johnnie that if 
she should ever actually kiss him, he would 
surely collapse with embarrassment and rapt- 
ure. 

He fell to dreaming largely of Alice, and. 
would sit and stare at her “in time of school” 
long and worshipfully. Whenever his eyes 
chanced to meet hers, however, he would 
wince and blush guiltily, turning it off as best 
he could by smiling stupidly at the “new 
girl” who sat near Alice, and whom he really 
detested. 

In this way Johnnie went on for weeks. At 
length the conviction became fixed that he 

23 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


ought to declare his passion in some way ; 
and instinct and observation alike pointed to 
writing her a note as the easiest and safest 
plan. It was a weighty and laborious matter 
and he consumed much time and paper be- 
fore he was able to produce a satisfactory dec- 
laration, which ran thus: 

Dear allie sum loves i and sum loves 2, But I love i 
and that is you. Yours truly, J. W. 

He folded it carefully and stowed it away 
in his pocket to await the time when courage 
and opportunity should be ripe for its deliv- 
ery. But Johnnie’s pocket was a precarious 
place for a note. The constant friction of 
pebbles, and nails, and pencils, and chalk 
made it age rapidly, and when at last it was 
fondly deposited between the pages of Alice’s 
geography, borrowed for the purpose, it 
looked more like an ancient bit of papyrus 
than a modern love-tale. It was no wonder, 
under these conditions, that the fair Alice 
failed to grasp its import and thoughtlessly 
tossed it to the floor. Johnnie saw her do it 
and his heart sank. He winked and glared 
24 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


at her, and pointed to the note until he per- 
spired, but she only smiled cheerily back at 
him. He resorted to all manner of panto- 
mime to no avail, and finally in utter desper- 
ation attempted to creep across the floor and 
rescue it while the teacher’s back was turned. 

“Johnnie Winkle,” cried the teacher sharp- 
ly, before he was half across, “come here! 
Now you may explain what you were doing 
on the floor.” 

“Lookin’ for my — my pencil,” he gasped 
in terror. 

“Has any one seen Johnnie’s pencil?” she 
asked, turning to the school. 

“It’s here, on his desk,” piped the boy 
who sat behind him. 

Johnnie registered avow to thrash that boy. 

“You may take your seat and remain after 
school,” said the teacher. 

In the meantime the “new girl” had dis- 
covered the ill-fated note, and was decipher- 
ing its contents with pleasant thrills. But her 
name was not “allie,” and as she read it 
again it dawned upon her that it had been in- 
tended for other eyes. Then her heart closed 

25 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


like a clam. Placing the grimy bit of paper 
in her spelling book, she approached the 
teacher’s desk and, after a feint of asking how 
to pronounce a certain word, slipped the note 
into the teacher’s hand. 

“That’s what he was huntin’,” she whis- 
pered scornfully. 

Johnnie observed that the note was gone, 
but dared not guess its fate. Perhaps Alice 
had found it after all, and hugging this hope 
and fear he awaited developments. 

As the other scholars filed out he looked 
with furtive anxiety toward the teacher, and 
was reassured to note a mild twinkle in her 
eyes. Possibly his punishment was not to be 
so very severe. At length she came and sat 
down at his side. Producing a scrap of pa- 
per, “I wish you would write your initials for 
me, Johnnie,” she said kindly. That was 
easy enough; but since she was so good he 
would take great pains. He ran his tongue 
out and proceeded slowly, scrupulously — with 
as great care as when inditing the note to 
Alice. 

“That is excellent,” said the teacher ap- 
26 


SOME BOYISH DREAMS 


provingly. “It looks very much like this, 
too, does it not?” and she thrust the dread- 
ful note under his nose. It was terrible. 
Johnnie could not stir — could not lift his eyes 
from the accusing missive — could not even 
clear his throat. His entire vitality seemed 
to have been diverted to blushes. 

“Did you write it, Johnnie?” 

It would be gratifying to be able to state 
that Johnnie replied bravely in the affirma- 
tive. But Johnnie was not a model; he was 
just a boy, and he answered sheepishly but 
resolutely, “No'm.” And the teacher, right- 
ly guessing that his conscience would visit 
sufficient retribution upon him, let him go. 


27 


IV 


AS FATHER OF THE MAN 

Perhaps the one theme which furnished 
Johnnie the broadest field for speculation, and 
supplied the tissue for his richest dreams, was 
what he would do when a man. At different 
stages of his boyhood he aspired to almost 
every craft and calling, and resolved to ac- 
complish all sorts of things from murder to 
missionary work. Few of his intentions for 
the future were at all fixed. Most of them 
depended upon some particular mood, and 
were subject to daily revision. There was 
but one thing that he was steadfastly sure he 
did not want to be, and that was — a boy. 

Among his earliest and most revered he- 
roes, whose example he longed to emulate, 
was the threshing-machine man. This man 
was jolly and wise — was always saying things 
at which people laughed, and knew all about 
28 


t 



. . RID3 
AND BLOW 
THE WHISTLE 

p. 30 







AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


the wonderful thresher, inside and out. More- 
over, he was '‘boss,” and only worked when 
he liked. Johnnie watched him worshipfully 
whenever the machine came upon the Winkle 
place. At the wave of his brawny hand every 
wheel started and stopped. If anything went 
wrong he knew exactly how to adjust it. He 
would even crawl calmly under or inside of 
the monster machine sometimes, and this was 
a feat to be admired and envied, indeed. 
Then, when the threshing was under way — 
when the vibrating riddles kept time to the 
whirling cylinder’s eerie song, till the very 
ground quaked and trembled with awe, how 
airily he would grasp a huge oil can and go 
climbing here and there amongst the maze of 
moving belts and pulleys, and no one dared 
tell him not to. For days after his departure 
Johnnie nursed the one ambition to become a 
famous threshing-machine man. 

But when he grew somewhat acquainted 
with the lot of the locomotive engineer his 
desires took a decided turn in that direction, 
and he began to dream of the delights of 
driving an engine across the country, with 
29 


AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


nothing to do but to ride and blow the whis- 
tle. What an endless holiday such a life 
must be ! Still, he would like to be a brake- 
man, too, because the brakeman could run 
along the tops of the moving cars. 

Once there came a wonderful temperance 
revival, and Johnnie straightway relinquished 
all other aspirations, and wished only to be- 
come a reformed drunkard. It would be so 
good and grand to be able to travel about de- 
nouncing rum, preaching salvation and telling 
what a bad man he had once been. To stand 
before charmed audiences and wave one’s 
hands and call everybody sisters and breth- 
ren, to provoke smiles and tears at will, to 
pour alcohol over eggs and show how it 
cooked them, to repeat the story of the man 
adrift on the raging river, and describe the 
terrible plunge over the falls — ah ! it would 
be glorious! Johnnie practiced temperance 
oratory secretly in the barn at every oppor- 
tunity, and preached to the horses and cows 
until they presented plain evidence of being 
“under conviction.” 

But the fact that he had never actually been 

30 


AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


a drunkard was against him, and finally caused 
him to abandon the field. The advent of a 
circus doubtless helped to precipitate this step. 
Although his parents were scrupulously op- 
posed to ' ‘shows,” this one was so lavishly 
magnificent in its advertisements that they 
resolved to make an exception in its favor, 
compromising with their consciences by argu- 
ing that it was really the instructive menagerie 
which they wished to see . So they went early 
and staid through concert and all. They would 
not have entered the circus tent at all, but that 
the elephants were going to perform there, and 
they could not afford to miss the edifying sight 
of an elephant standing on his head. Mrs. 
Winkle was pained by many things she saw 
at the performance, especially the profound 
interest in every act manifested by Johnnie 
and Mr. Winkle. 

Johnnie walked and lived in a dream of 
prancing horses, of trapeze and tights, for 
weeks. He fully determined to be a show- 
man, and practiced faithfully to that end. He 
came near breaking his neck in an attempt to 
execute a double somersault in the hay-mow 

31 


AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


by making a mathematical mistake and care- 
lessly turning over just once and a half in- 
stead of twice. He constructed a trapeze out 
of halter ropes and a pitchfork handle, from 
which he dangled in daring poses. He painted 
his face with pokeberries and surreptitiously 
borrowed his mother’s hat in order to play 
clown, and practiced standing on his head till 
he wore his hair off. But the lack of proper 
trappings was a constant source of embarrass- 
ment. His failure to accomplish certain feats 
he believed to be due solely to this dearth 
of. tights and trunks. So he went about con- 
structing an outfit. From the dark depths of 
the garret he unearthed certain gauzy rem- 
nants of cast-off underwear, out of which, 
with scissors, needle and thread he pieced to- 
gether a strange and wonderful garment. 
When finished, it presented an undue fullness 
here and there, and occasional holes, which 
he had neglected to mend, but the warm 
weather rendered them of no consequence. 

It seemed an auspicious day for him to 
appear. His mother had company. Aunt 
Mary and Cousin Elmira had come to spend 

32 




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AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


the day, and shortly after them the minister 
and his wife. The latter couple had proba- 
bly never seen an acrobatic performance, and 
Johnnie thought how pleased they would be, 
and how proud his mother ought to be, when 
he should present himself. It chanced that 
the subject of circuses was under discussion. 
The minister had mildly rebuked Sister Win- 
kle for her recent wordliness, and she was 
feebly protesting. 

“Now, Brother Potter, I don’t believe it 
hurt a thing for us to go just that one time. 
The animals was real instructive, an’ while I 
didn’t approve of the performance, I don’t 
think it harmed us a mite. Now, there’s 
Johnnie — ” and even as she spoke, there 
Johnnie really was. A sleeveless shirt with 
extremely low neck, a green veil for a trunk 
and a nameless nether garment of gauze and 
striped hosiery constituted his costume. He 
smiled and bowed gracefully as he came into 
view upon the lawn. Then he began jauntily 
with a succession of handsprings. Mrs. 
Winkle was stricken dumb. 

“Very instructive,” murmured the minis- 

3 33 


AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


ter, while his wife looked pained and Aunt 
Mary tittered. 

Johnnie stood on his head, waving his feet. 

“My! Ain’t that splendid?” cried Elmira, 
clapping her hands. 

Suddenly the air was rent with a sound of 
tearing. Then Mrs. Winkle found her tongue. 

“You, Johnnie!” she screamed. “You, 
Johnnie!” and Johnnie retired in hasty dis- 
order. But punishment was visited upon him 
before he had time to put on more substan- 
tial clothes, and its severity was such that he 
never donned tights again. 

There were many wrongs which Johnnie 
expected to revenge when he should become 
a man. A certain big boy who wa?s always 
bullying him was to be so thoroughly thrashed 
that he would weep and beg for mercy. 
Cousin Elmira was to suffer for her tattling, 
and even his parents were to be made to real- 
ize the injustice of their acts. Yet a due 
amount of reflection upon this subject tended 
to soften his asperity, and he always decided 
it were better to be generous as well as just. 

He would do' a great many nice things. 

34 


AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


Those who were becomingly meek and peni- 
tent he would magnanimously discharge with 
the injunction to “go, and sin no more / ’ And 
if he ever had any little boys of his own, how 
beautifully he would treat them. This was 
one of his favorite topics for speculation. His 
little boys should go to school only when 
they pleased; they should not have to do 
chores ; they should have pie for breakfast 
(as many pieces as they wished) ; they should 
have hip pockets and wear suspenders, and 
go to all the circuses, and have ponies and 
lots of dogs, and a little train of cars to run 
by steam. Other little boys would come for 
miles around to see what a kind papa his little 
boys had. 

Thus would Johnnie dream and ponder un- 
til he fairly worshiped the ideal man, who 
he intended to be. Truly the child is father 
of the man; but how degenerate a descend- 
ant he becomes when he has reached matu- 
rity ! 

Yet, often childhood’s dreams are the seeds 
of future greatness. Somewhere in the course 
of every notable career, perhaps, the legend 
35 


AS FATHER OF THE MAN 


of Dick Whittington is paralleled. If the soil 
of heredity and the climate of environment are 
at all favorable, the idlest dreams may prove 
to be the little acorns from which grow the 
tallest oaks. But, alas, the soil is often ster- 
ile, the summer dry, and worst of all, the 
seeds are quite as frequently the germs of 
tares as of wheat. The “Raggedy Man’ ’ may 
have sown whilst worthier people slept — the 
Hired Hand’s influence may have implanted 
ideals deeper than the parson’s; and weeds 
are ever prone to flourish at the expense of 
useful cereals. 


V 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 

Going to school was compulsory. That 
was the chief reason Johnnie disliked it. If 
his parents had held it out to him as a luxu- 
ry, if they had spoken of it as an indulgence 
they could ill afford and tried to persuade him 
to be satisfied with picture-books at home, 
he would have gone or died. But it was con- 
tinually presented to him in the light of a 
serious duty and duties are always bugbears 
to boyhood. On general principles Johnnie 
disliked the things he ought to do, and the 
things he had to do he hated. Such has 
been the primitive perverseness of his kind 
since Adam’s fall. 

For weeks he had been looking longingly 
forward to vacation. There was nothing he 
desired so much as to be free once more. It 
seemed to him that when school closed, he 
37 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


would be the happiest boy in the world. He 
laid a hundred plans for the holidays, includ- 
ing in their scope every sort of diversion, from 
fishing to chasing butterflies. 

But when the last day of school really came, 
he did not rejoice as he had anticipated. All 
day long strange regrets kept rising in his 
throat and choking him, an unaccustomed 
sadness dimmed his eyes and dark-browed 
melancholy came and sat at his side. The 
last day of school ! The last day of base-ball 
and blackman, of hide-and-seek and Ant’ny 
over, of “green gravel,” of ring a-rosy — the 
last happy day of whispering, of smiling at 
girls and writing notes, of play, of joy, of 
love ! To-morrow he would be at home and 
companionless. To-morrow he would be dis- 
consolate and altogether miserable. The last 
day. He wished — ^yes, he wished it were but 
the beginning of school again, with all the 
long, delightful months to follow ! 

He borrowed Alice’s geography and slow- 
ly, as he turned the leaves — for the last time 
• — reviewed the events of the hallowed past. 
How many and how dear were tne recollec- 

38 



TH3 LAST DAYS OF 
RING A-ROSEY 
P. 38 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


tions that floated there between him and the 
book! Every blessed page was intimately 
connected with some irretrievable by-gone 
pleasure. And it was Alice’s book. His af- 
fection for her, which had languished of late, 
came surging back resistlessly. It was her 
book ; her name was on the fly-leaf, written 
beautifully ; her thumb-marks underscored 
each lesson, the faint, meadowy odor, exhal- 
ing from its pages, ah, futile incense to de- 
parted days, whispered of her! And this 
was the end of all. Doubtless other eyes 
would gaze upon the book, other hands ca- 
ress it, other hearts throb with the love of her, 
ere school opened again. With brimming 
eyes, which shamed him, Johnnie inscribed 
on the last page that soulful sentiment, sacred 
to all school-memories: “When this you 
see, remember me,’’ and sealed it with a tear. 
Nay, the love affairs of boyhood are not to be 
passed over in derision. Is not childhood 
a part, the very best part, of life? And 
its passions, though often transient, are they 
not intense and pure? He is hopelessly old 


39 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


to whom the sentiment of the young appears 
utterly inane and silly. 

On this last day of school Johnnie’s heart 
softened toward the teacher also. He had 
regarded her always as a sort of natural ene- 
my, whom it was his prerogative to oppose, 
and for whom anything more than a cold re- 
spect was weakness. Yet she was not such a 
bad teacher, after all; and he almost wept 
again with the thought of not seeing her any 
more. All the boys and girls seemed to as- 
sume more amiable outlines in the perspect- 
ive of the past. Even the familiar furniture 
of the room took on a golden glamor, and his 
hardest lessons smiled up into his face in the 
guise of old friends. 

The day was not all given to gloom, how- 
ever. School was to close with a flourish of 
great “doings.” A program had been pre- 
pared, consisting of compositions, declama- 
tions and a grand finale of competitive spell- 
ing. Johnnie, himself, was to “say a piece,” 
upon which his mother had been drilling him 
for weeks, and she was coming after dinner to 
hear him. 


40 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


Among the throng of visitors came Alice’s 
mother, too. Johnnie looked upon her with 
awe. To be the parent of his Dnlcinea was 
to be great. Perhaps it was largely owing to 
her presence that Johnnie muddled his 
‘ ‘ speech . ’ ’ Another enervating circumstance 
may have been the fact that Alice immedi- 
ately preceded him with a soul-stirring essay 
on “Love Thy Neighbor.” At any rate 
when Johnnie’s name was announced a strange 
numbness came over him, his knees trembled 
and his identity was lost. It was not really 
Johnnie who staggered to the rostrum and, 
in a sepulchral voice, murmured dolefully: 
“Twinkle little — twinkle star. 

How I wonder’ ’ — here he paused and tried 
to swallow the lump in his throat — 

“How I wonder what you are, 

Up above” — another gulp — “above the 
world so high. 

How I wonder what you are. 

When the golden grass is set, ’ ’ some one 
tittered, and, panic stricken, Johnnie rushed 
on like a flock of frightened sheep. 

‘ ‘When — the — sky — with — dew — is — wet, 

41 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


— Then — you — show — your — little — light, 
Twinkle — all — the— night— ’ ’ gulp — “night. ’ ’ 

He finished in a husky whisper and flew to 
his seat, where his temporarily departed spirit 
presently rejoined him. The remainder of 
the exercises he enjoyed very well, especially 
the “new girl’s” recital of “Curfew” and the 
Big Boy’s interpretation of “Antony on the 
Death of Caesar.” 

The “spelling-match” came next, and, 
here, Johnnie shone. Spelling was his forte. 
He caught the words in mid air as the teacher 
“gave them out” and hurled them back confi- 
dently, almost defiantly. Now and then he 
made a feint of missing one, but he would al- 
ways catch it on the “first bounce” if not on 
the “fly” and, tossing it up a time or two, 
would send it back unerringly. Some of the 
more difficult words he literally seemed to 
hold in his mouth and masticate a while, just 
to get the juice out of them, but they always 
came forth “right.” When the teacher 
loaded her mortar with “daguerreotype” and 
fired, a hush fell upon the room, and every 
one thought how heartless it was to aim such 
42 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


deadly artillery at so small a boy. But, ere 
the smoke had cleared away, Johnnie was 
seen to square himself and swell up proudly 
for the answering volley. “D-a, da, g-u-e-r- 
r-e, gar, o, garo, t-y-p-e, type, daguerreo- 
type,” spelled Johnnie in measured tones. 

“Right ! ’ ' called the teacher, and the house 
roared with applause. 

At length every scholar was spelled down, 
except Johnnie and Alice, and, for half an 
hour, the victory lay between them. The 
dictionary was drawn upon and strange, un- 
natural words never before heard of, were 
pronounced. It was a tedious battle. Finally 
in despair, the teacher called incisively, 
‘ ‘ Caoutchouc ! ’ ’ 

It was Alice’s turn, and she misspelled the 
ghastly word miserably. 

“Next,” sighed the teacher, with an air 
of relief. 

And Johnnie spelled it right. 

It was certainly either a miracle or an acci- 
dent, the people whispered. But, in fact, it 
was neither. Johnnie had come upon the 
word in the back of the geography one day, 
43 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


and its very formidableness had fascinated 
him into mastering it then and there. He was 
lionized by all, and it would have been a 
proud moment for him but for the lamentable 
fact that his gain had been Alice’s loss. In 
the excitement of the contest he had hardly 
realized the personality of his opponent. He 
had been oblivious to everything except the 
words he was spelling. All unintentionally, 
he felt that he had done a very ungracious 
thing — had defeated and put to shame the 
girl he adored. 

“It’s jist the teacher’s partiality,” he heard 
Alice’s mother whisper, “I don’t believe he 
spelt it right at all. I doubt if they is such a 
word, anyways. The idea!” 

And amid all the buzz of congratulations 
Johnnie was profoundly wretched. 

But, at all odds, he had won thj£ prize, and 
he hoped its possession might compensate 
him to some degree. He was called to the 
platform, where, with words of praise, such as 
she had never bestowed before, the teacher 
presented him a book. He thrust it into his 


44 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 

pocket and started to his seat amid renewed 
applause. But his mother intercepted him. 

“Johnnie Winkle,” she whispered shrilly, 
“where’s your manners? Go back and thank 
your teacher ! ’ ’ 

Johnnie had not learned that inconsistent 
but imperative rule of custom, which requires 
an additional payment of thanks for honors 
already well earned. 

“I’m much obliged,” he admitted diffi- 
dently, facing about. 

There was much curiosity expressed as to 
the book’s probable contents and value, but 
Johnnie stubbornly refused to permit its in- 
spection. 

The actual breaking up of school was not 
so painful after all. Farewells were lightly 
spoken for the most part, and sighs and tears 
kept in abeyance by an assumption of gayety. 
Regret at parting with a friend was largely 
assuaged by getting his “tag.^’ 

When he arrived home, Johnnie examined 
his prize book. It was a very small and some- 
what rusty looking volume, across whose 


45 


THE LAST DAY OF SCHOOL 


cover was emblazoned the melancholy title, 
“Paradise Lost!” 

“H’m — poertry,” murmured Johnnie de- 
jectedly, as he turned the pages. Before 
night the book had been given a place in the 
family book-case, where it reposed in undis- 
turbed peace for many years. 


46 



SYLVAN 

BORDER-LAND 


p.47 


■ k* 


VI 


L 


VACATION AND CHORES 

Johnnie Winkle’s world was narrow. It 
consisted only of two or three square miles of 
farm land, bounded by an irregular horizon 
of timber, out of which the sun rose each 
morning and into which it disappeared each 
night. Strange, unearthly shadows filled this 
sylvan border-land, and beyond lay mystery, 
impenetrable. But the sky reached to a stu- 
pendous height, and was very blue above. 
Across this world, even as the milky- way girt 
the heavens, ran the country road, a wonder- 
ful, unknown path, leading out of space into 
space and joining together a universe of plan- 
etary systems of a vastness and importance 
but dimly guessed. 

It was a small world, but it was a busy 
and contented one, full of life and sunshine, 
and so abundant in production that its har- 
47 


VACATION AND CHORES 


vests continually overflowed into other less 
luxurious ones. To a sojourner from the 
sulphurous Mars-like city it might have pre- 
sented a somewhat drowsy, humdrum appear- 
ance at times — its peace might have been 
mistaken for solitude, its quietude for dull- 
ness; but to its native inhabitants, who knew 
its under-life and the subtle, silent magic of 
the seasons, it was the best and most beaute- 
ous of worlds. For them it did not lack en- 
tertainment. The grand opera opened with 
frog choruses and closed with a rare solo by 
Madam Whip-poor-will. Nature set fire-flies 
aglow and hung out jack-o’-lanterns each 
fourth of July, and the moon and stars occu- 
pied the firmament night after night. Flow- 
ers sprung up and bloomed of their own 
accord, and birds came and sang melodies of 
freedom. Bonbons clustered on every bush 
and bramble to be had for the picking. In 
May mulberries grew luscious, strawberries in 
June, blackberries in July, and all sorts of 
nuts, not to mention pumpkins, persimmons 
and pawpaws, ripened during the fall. There 
was plenty of fish in the brooks, game in the 
48 


VACATION AND CHORES 


woods — health, wealth and happiness every- 
where. 

Such was Johnnie’s world — such was the 
garden of Eden ! But the tree of knowledge 
was there, and the serpent, and when one had 
tasted the fruit he was sure to realize his own 
nakedness and recognize good and evil, even 
in Paradise. Moreover his bread was not to 
be acquired except by profuse perspiration, 
and Johnnie early learned this lesson. 

Chief among his duties was “doing chores, ’ ’ 
a term including all manner of unclassified 
labor on the farm — hewing wood, drawing 
water, feeding cattle, milking, riding, driv- 
ing, walking, running. The catalogue was 
simply endless. Chores awoke him early 
each morning, and always bade him a tardy, 
tired “good-night.” They were never done. 
They assumed Protean shapes and Titanic 
dimensions. He turned the horses into the 
pasture at night to trudge after them again in 
the morning; he weeded the onion bed to- 
day, hoed potatoes to-morrow, and weeded 
the onion bed on the day after. Whatsoever 
he sowed that also he had to reap, and sow 
4 49 


VACATION AND CHORES 


and reap again. Nay, the biblical axiom did 
not express it by half, for not only must he 
reap and sow, but prepare the soil and till it. 

One of the most formidable subdivisions of 
the chores was known as “running errands. “ 
It was always run ; never walk or ride. Run 
over to Mr. Smith’s and borrow his post- 
auger; run down to Aunt Mary’s and get a 
pint of flour; run to the house and fetch a 
jug of water; run to the field and call the 
men to dinner ; run the calf out of the yard ; 
run the pigs out of the corn-field ; run away ; 
run home; run, run everywhere! That was 
Johnnie’s strongest reason for wanting wings, 
so that he could rest his limbs now and then 
by flying. 

Some people seemed to think boys never 
grew tired, — as if they were not always tired, 
except when playing. 

Running errands would doubtless exhaust 
all boys and dwarf their natures beyond re- 
pair were it not for their genius of evading 
and prevaricating. Imagine Johnnie running 
all the way to Aunt Mary’s and back again 
without once stopping. He knew it was im- 

50 


V 



. . CAUTIOUSLY 

OVER 

THE LOG 

p. 51 







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practicable, preposterous; for how could he 
run over fences and through the creek? No 
boy could run in water up to his neck, and 
the only other way to cross was on a danger- 
ous, slippery log. Being convinced that the 
command could not be obeyed literally, he 
did not undertake it. He would start in a 
run, but when he came to the creek he usu- 
ally stripped and swam it, dog-fashion, back 
and forth several times, and then walked cau- 
tiously over the log, and when he reached 
home he explained that his hair was wet with 
sweat from having run so fast. 

But running the pigs out of the corn pre- 
sented no pretext for diversion. There was 
no creek in the corn-field, and if there had 
been the pigs would never have gone near it. 
Pigs are peculiar creatures. Johnnie believed 
they were all possessed of devils, and that it 
was pure perverseness which caused them to 
circle round and round the field, apparently 
unable to find the crack in the fence through 
which they had entered. He would come 
upon them rooting in the middle of the field. 
“Woof! woof!” they would snort and scatter 

51 


VACATION AND CHORES 


in more directions than there were pigs. Then 
he would follow some particular one in a zig- 
zag race to the fence. Just ahead appeared 
the space between two rails, marked by mud 
and bristles, where the marauder had got in. 
Straight to the crack the pig would run until 
fairly there, when, with a scared look, it 
would utter another ‘ Voof ! ’ ’ and go scurry- 
ing off at a right angle. In the meantime its 
companions in crime were peacefully feed- 
ing again and, seeking them out, Johnnie 
would choose another for a second heat, with 
the same exasperating result as before. Fi- 
nally, when he had become absolutely worn 
out and flung himself in a shaded fence-corner 
to breathe, the whole herd of swine would file 
demurely past him, and with whine and 
grunt, march deliberately out of their own 
free will. 

There are some kinds of work which can 
be slighted, and if Johnnie could have had 
his preference, he would always have chosen 
these. For instance, when sent alone to 
plant a pint of beans, by sticking holes near 
hills of corn — one for each bean — he could 
53 


VACATION AND CHORES 

L 

economize time at the expense of beans, 
by planting a dozen at each place, and throw- 
ing the last double handful into a bottomless 
crawfish hole. 

But perhaps the most satisfactory variety 
of labor was that which, by a stretch of the 
imagination, he could persuade himself was 
not work at all, but play, or at least some 
/ novel and wonderfully lucrative employment. 
Johnnie was not an utterly lazy boy. It was 
not action he disliked, but tedium and re- 
straint. Chiefly he wanted to be a man, to 
do a man’s work, to accomplish great things. 
Digging potatoes was, in itself, dismal 
drudgery, but by making-believe each potato 
was a nugget of gold and himself a delving 
miner, it became a really splendid vocation. 
Nor was cutting thistles in the pasture a play- 
ful thing, yet, when he called each plant an 
armed enemy and himself a bold knight errant, 
it became a pleasant pastime. So with many 
forms of chore-work, but he could never con- 
jure up any satisfactory glamor for the tasks 
of weeding onions and chopping stove- 
wood. 


53 


VACATION AND CHORES 


All in all, Johnnie’s vacation was far from 
empty, and he found little time and less in- 
clination for school ward yearnings. In the 
intervals between chores, he devised many 
ways of amusing himself, and the dearth of 
boy-companions was largely supplied by his 
dog, Pluto. A dog is almost as good a play- 
mate and a better friend than a boy. He 
never tires of being “It” in a game of tag, 
and will endure every form of imposition with- 
out complaining. 

Pluto was a democratic dog, having no 
more of a pedigree than his master. True, 
he possessed traits which led Johnnie to be- 
lieve that he was “full-blooded;” but his an- 
cestry was unknown. His yellow coat and 
squatty legs lent color and form to the convic- 
tion that he was just an ordinary “fice.” 
Johnnie and Pluto were inseparable. Much 
of Johnnie’s spare time was spent in teach- 
ing the dog tricks. These tricks were won- 
derful to relate, but rather disappointing to 
see, needing a boy’s sympathetic imagination 
to point out their intelligence. At driving 
cattle Pluto was a success, except that he al- 
54 


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INDIAN 

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VACATION AND CHORES 

ways approached them from in front and 
drove them the wrong way. He was an ad- 
mirable hunting dog, so far as hunting was 
concerned, but he seldom actually found any 
game. 

Johnnie had two other occasional comrades, 
the “Hired Hand” and Cousin Henry. The 
latter was three years his senior, and the re- 
lationship between him and Johnnie was some- 
what similar to that existing between Johnnie 
and Pluto. Great concessions were necessary 
on Johnnie’s part, before Cousin Henry would 
deign to play with him ; and then the sport 
had to be conducted with manly dignity. 
Cousin Henry chewed tobacco — in secret — 
and could “cuss.” Moreover, it was whis- 
pered, and never denied by him, that he had 
“gone with girls,” escorting them home 
from meeting and parties. These accom- 
plishments commanded respect and respect 
for him compelled obedience to his wishes. 

Cousin Henry condescended to pay John- 
nie a visit about once a fortnight. For an 
hour they would get on well enough playing 


55 


VACATION AND CHORES 


“Indian” or “Cow-boy.” Then Henry 
would grow disgusted. 

“Aw, say, this is no fun. Where’s yer 
pa’s musket?” 

“In the house,” Johnnie would answer 
hesitatingly. 

“Go git it.” 

“Paw don’t ’low me to.” 

“Who ast him! Go git it, I tell ye.” 

Then Johnnie would sneak into the house 
and, after a short absence, would return with 
the intelligence that he couldn’t find the gun 
“noplace” — which was grammatically true, 
but to all intents a lie. 

“I’ll tell ye what,” Henry would exclaim 
a few minutes later, “let’s go over to ol’ man 
Shank’s melon-patch.” 

“All right!” Johnnie would answer with 
ill-assumed alacrity. 

Across the fields they would hasten with 
bated breath until the fence in the rear of the 
Shank’s premises was reached. There Henry 
would kneel and point out the melon-patch to 
Johnnie, whispering: 

“Now, you’r smaller’n me. You’ll find 

56 


VACATION AND CHORES 


the best ones up next to the garden. Be 
quick an’ keep yer eyes peeled for the dog!” 
And quaking with terror, Johnnie would obey. 
In almost every instance the dog saw John- 
nie and charged on him before he got half 
way across the lot. On one occasion he was 
forced to climb a peach-tree to save himself. 
Cousin Henry forsook him ignominiously and 
he might have perished there, if Shank’s 
hired girl had not come to his release. Yet 
such experiences never shook his faith in 
Cousin Henry. His constancy was very like 
Pluto’s. 

There are men, as well as dogs and boys, 
who will take kicks from one and resent a 
look from another. 


VII 

THE HIRED HAND AND “HA’NTS'' 

The Hired Hand was Johnnie’s oracle. His 
auguries were infallible; from his decisions 
there was no appeal. The wisdom of experi- 
enced age was his, and he always stood will- 
ing to impart it to the youngest. No ques- 
tion was too trivial for him to consider, and 
none too abstruse for him to answer. He did 
not tell Johnnie to “never mind,” or wait un- 
til he grew older, but was ever willing to 
pause in his work to explain things. And his 
oracular qualifications were genuine. He had 
'traveled — had even been as far as Indianapo- 
lis once to the State Fair; he had read — from 
Robinson Crusoe to Dick, the Dead Shot, 
and, more than all, he had meditated deeply. 

The Hired Hand’s name was Eph. Perhaps 
he had a Christian name, too, but if so it had 
58 








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grown obsolete. Far and wide he was known 
simply as Eph. 

Eph was generally termed “a cur’ous fel- 
ler, ’ ’ and this characterization applied equally 
well to his peculiar appearance and inquiring 
disposition. In his conformation Nature had 
evidently sacrificed her love of beauty to 
a passing passion for elongation. Length 
seemed to have been the central thought — 
the theme, as it were, upon which he had 
been composed. This effect was heightened 
by generously broad hands and feet and a 
contrastingly abbreviated chin. The latter 
feature caused his countenance to wear in re- 
pose a decidedly vacant look, but it was sel- 
dom caught reposing, usually having to bear 
a smirk of some sort. 

Eph’s position in the Winkle household 
was as peculiar as his personality. Nomi- 
nally he was a hired servant, but, in fact, 
from his own point of view at least, he was 
Mr. Winkle’s private secretary and confiden- 
tial adviser. He had been on the place 
'‘ever sence ol’ Fan was a yearlin’,’’ which 
was a long while, indeed, and had come to 
59 


THE HIRED HAND AND “HA’NTS 


regard himself as indispensable. The Win- 
kles treated him as one of the family, and he 
reciprocated in truly familiar ways. He sat 
at the table with them, helped entertain their 
guests and often accompanied them to church. 
In regulating matters on the farm Mr. Winkle 
proposed, but Eph invariably disposed, in a 
diplomatic way, of course, and although his 
judgment might be based on false logic, the 
result was generally successful and satisfac- 
tory. 

With all his good qualities and her attach- 
ment to him, however, Mrs. Winkle was not 
sure that Eph’s moral status was quite sound, 
and she was inclined to discourage Johnnie’s 
association with him. As a matter of fact she 
had overheard Johnnie utter several “bad 
words, ’ ’ of which Eph was certainly the prime 
source. But a mother’s solicitude was of 
little avail when compared with Eph’s Del- 
phian wisdom. Johnnie would steal away to 
join Eph in the field at every chance, and the 
information he acquired at these secret seances 
was varied and valuable. 

It was Eph who taught him how to tell the 
6o 



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LOST 

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THE HIRED HAND AND “HA’NTS” 

time of day by the sun; how to insert a 
“dutchman” in the place of a lost suspender 
button; how to make bird-traps, and how to 
‘ ‘skin a cat. ’ ’ Eph initiated him into the mys- 
teries of magic and witchcraft, and showed 
him how to locate a subterranean vein of wa- 
ter by means of a twig of witch-hazel. Eph 
also confided to Johnnie that he could stanch 
the flow of blood or stop a toothache instantly 
by force of a certain charm, but he could not 
tell how to do this because the secret could 
be imparted only from man to woman, or 
vice versa. Even the shadowy domain of 
spirits had not been exempt from Eph’s 
investigations, and he related many a terrify- 
ing experience with “ha’nts.” 

Johnnie was first introduced to the ghost 
world one summer night, when he and Eph 
had gone fishing together. 

“If ye tvant to ketch the big uns, always go 
at night in the dark o’ the moon,” said Eph, 
and his piscatorial knowledge was absolute. 

They had fished in silence for some time, 
and Johnnie was nodding, when Eph sudden- 


61 


THE HIRED HAND AND “HA’NTS 


ly whispered, “Le’s go home, sonny, I think 
I see a ha’nt down yander.” 

Johnnie had no idea what a “ha’nt” might 
be, but Eph’s constrained manner betokened 
something dreadful. 

It was not until they had come within sight 
of home that Johnnie ventured to inquire, 
“Say, Eph, what is a ha’nt?” 

“Huh! What is ha’nts? Why, sonny, 
you mean to tell me you don’t know what 
ha’nts is?”* 

“Not exactly; sompin’ like wild-cats, ain’t 
they?” 

“Well, I’ll be confounded! Wild-cats! 
Not by a long shot,” and Eph broke into the 
soft chuckle which always preceded his ex- 
planations. They reached the orchard fence 
and, seating himself squarely upon the top- 
most rail, Eph began impressively: 

“Ha’nts is the remains of dead folks — 
more ’specially them that’s been assinated, 
er, that is, kilt — understan’? They’re kind 
o’ like sperrits, ye know. After so long a 
time they take to cornin’ back to yarth an’ 
ha’ntin’ the pre-cise spot where they 
62 


wuz 


THE HIRED HAND AND “HA’NTS” 

murdered. They always come after dark an’ 
the diff’runt shapes they take on is supprisin’. 
I have seed ha’nts that looked like sheep, an’ 
ha’ntsthat looked like human persons ; but lots 
of ’em ye cain’t see a tall, bein’ in-visible, as 
the say in’ is. Now, fer all we know they 
may be a ha’nt settin’ right here betwixt us, 
this minute !” 

With this solemn declaration Johnnie shiv- 
ered and began edging closer to Eph, until 
restrained and appalled by the thought that 
he might actually sit upon the unseen spirit 
by such movement. 

“But do they hurt people, Eph?” he asked 
anxiously. 

Eph gave vent to another chuckle. 

“Not if ye understan’ the’r ways,” he ob- 
served sagely. “If ye let ’em alone an’ 
don’t go foolin’ aroun’ the’r ha’ntin’-groun’ 
they’ll never harm ye. But don’t ye never 
trifle with no ha’nt, sonny. I knowed a fel- 
ler ’t thought ’twuz smart to hector ’em an’ 
said he wuzn’t afeared. Onct he throwed a 
rock at one — ” 

Here Eph paused. 

63 


THE HIRED HAND AND “ H A’NTS 


“What h-happened?” gasped Johnnie. 

“In one year from that time/’ replied Eph 
gruesomely, “that there feller’s cow wuz hit 
by lightnin’ ; in three year his boss kicked 
him an’ busted a rib; an’ in seven year he 
wuz a corpse ! ’ ’ 

The power of this horrible example was too 
much for Johnnie. 

“Don’t you reckon it’s bedtime?” he sug- 
gested tremblingly. 

Thenceforth for many months Johnnie led 
a haunted life. Ghosts glowered at him from 
cellar and garret. Spectres slunk at his heels, 
phantoms flitted through the barn. Twi- 
light teemed with horrors and midnight, when 
he awoke at that hour, made of his bed-room 
a veritable Brocken. 

It was vain for his parents to expostulate 
with him. Was one not bound to believe 
one’s own eyes? And how about the testi- 
mony of the Hired Hand? 

The story in his reader — told in verse and 
graphically illustrated — of the boy of the 
name of Walter, who, being alone on a lone- 
some highway one dark night, beheld a sight 

64 



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THE HIRED HAND AND “ HA’NTS 


that made “his blood run cold,” acquired an 
abnormal interest for Johnnie. Walter, with 
courage resembling madness, marched straight 
up to the alleged ghost and laughed gleefully 
to find “It was a friendly guide-post, his 
wand ’ring steps to guide.” 

This was all very well, as it turned out, but 
what if it had been a sure-enough ghost, reflected 
Johnnie. What if it had reached down with 
its long, snaky arms and snatched Walter up 
— and run off with him in the dark — and no 
telling what? Or it might have swooped 
straight up in the air with him, for ghosts 
could do that.. Johnnie resolved he would 
not take any chances with friendly guide-posts 
which might turn out to be hostile spirits. 

Then there was the similar tale of the lame 
goose and the one concerning the pillow in 
the swing — each intended, no doubt, to allay 
foolish fears on the part of children, but exer- 
cising an opposite and harrowing influence 
upon Johnnie. 

It happened about this time, too, that 
Cousin Henry loaned Johnnie a contraband 
volume of the Arabian Nights. There the 
5 65 


THE HIRED HAND AND “ H A’NTS 


miracles of mighty magic were described in 
plain black and white, calculated to dispel all 
doubts. Lying prone in the hay-mow, or re- 
clining against the straw-stack, Johnnie 
gloated over the book by the hour. No other 
work extant furnishes such food for boyhood’s 
imagination, excepting, possibly. Pilgrim’s 
Progress. There were passages in the narra- 
tives which became so terribly vivid that 
Johnnie would be compelled to put the 
book down and run to the house. In 
dreams of enchantment he wandered through 
the adjacent woods looking for the entrance 
to Aladdin’s cave. He fancied the dingy 
brass ring on his finger might be a magic tal- 
isman, and rubbed it vigorously, half expect- 
ing and half fearing its genii would appear. 
From its garret-grave he resurrected the 
hobby-horse of other days, and searched it 
over for a secret peg, such as the Hindu ma- 
gician’s horse possessed, and the turning of 
which gave the beast the power of flying. 

But Mrs. Winkle found and confiscated the 
cherished book one day, and its whilom en- 


66 



. . GLOATED 
OVER THE 
BOOK BY 
THE HOUR 
p. 66 


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THE HIRED HAND AND “HA’NTS” 

chantment was smothered by misgivings as to 
accounting for its loss to its jealous owner. 

The day of judgment was not long in com- 
ing. Mrs. Winkle sat up half the night in- 
specting the volume, and wrestled with night- 
mares until morning. Then she took it under 
her arm and hurried down to Aunt Mary’s. 

*‘Did you know your boy was lending 
Johnnie such books as this?” she asked 
sharply. 

Aunt Mary did not know it. Indeed she 
had never seen the book before. 

“Well, its dreadful nonsense,” said Mrs. 
Winkle. “Full of witches and charms, and 
such stuff. Some of it is downright wicked ; 
you ought to read it ! ” 

Aunt Mary took the book somewhat gin- 
gerly. She was sure she didn’t know where 
Henry could have got it, but she would look 
into it. 

So the book was perused carefully by Aunt 
Mary, who confessed herself duly horrified by 
its contents, and, by way of pointing the 
moral of its immorality, Henry was severely 


67 


THE HIRED HAND AND “ H A’NTS 


punished for having * ‘brought the sinful thing 
on the place/ ^ 

Henry got even by thrashing Johnnie, but 
Johnnie, as usual, had to bottle his resent- 
ment, eking out only a small portion of it by 
going around behind the barn and throwing 
pebbles at the chickens. There were times 
when Johnnie wished longingly for a younger 
brother. 


68 


VIII 


BEING SICK 

To THE average man being sick is a very 
melancholy sort of diversion. He seldom has 
the leisure time to devote to it, and he is al- 
ways oppressed with the unpleasant probabil- 
ities of speedy dissolution and the dire Certain- 
ty of doctors’ bills to pay. But to the aver- 
age boy these terrors occur not, and to him 
being sick stands next in enjoyment to a fish- 
ing excursion. A sick man always has lungs, 
a heart and a liver — to say nothing of a self- 
assertive stomach — and these organs are con- 
stantly becoming fatally deranged so as to 
require his strict attention. But the sick boy 
has none of these organs, except the stomach. 
Even the sober contemplation of death does 
not greatly perturb the philosopher of twelve, 
for he always looks upon his own demise 
from the pathetic but impersonal standpoint 
of the grief-stricken friends or remorseful ene- 
mies of the deceased. 

69 


BEING SICK 


The season of cucumbers and unripe fruit 
always marked a period of poor health in 
Johnnie’s career. The rose-tint of hardy 
youth suddenly faded from his cheeks, and he 
grew pallid and “bilious” and full of pain. 
At such times he was inclined to become pre- 
ternaturally kind and patient, enduring every- 
thing with martyr-like resignation ; and 
death, having a proverbial fondness for shin- 
ing marks, was fully expected by himself 
and feared by his distressed mother. 

As he lay quietly in bed reflecting upon 
such grave matters, his imagination was wont 
to grow active and tender, and hot tears often- 
times scalded his cheeks as he thought of the 
terrible void his untimely taking off would 
make in the world. His disconsolate parents, 
his heart-broken playmates, the sad and re- 
morseful Cousin Henry — who thrashed him 
only last week — ah, if he had only known! — 
all these rose up and gathered around his bed 
to mourn until his own soft heart was touched 
and he mingled his tears with theirs. In pity 
for their distress he freely forgave them for 
every injury they had heaped upon him and, 
70 


BEING SICK 


in short, conjured up for himself a death-bed 
scene as beautiful and heart-rending as any 
Eva or Little Nell ever figured in. 

“Mother,” he moaned feebly — he always 
said “maw” when well — “mother, won’t you 
please send for Cousin Henry?” 

An hour later when that worthy appeared 
he whispered : 

“Henry, I am going to give you my red- 
and-blue lead pencil.” 

“Bully for you ! ” cried Henry, snatching 
up the prize. “Say, I’m going to take this 
apple, too. The doctor says you can’t eat 
it,” and Henry rushed out whistling merrily. 

This act of heartlessness somewhat marred 
the pleasantness of dying; in fact it caused 
Johnnie to postpone death for the time and to 
demand the return of the pencil ; but there 
was many another solace remaining. 

What country boy has not enjoyed the un- 
told comforts of the ague? Certainly there 
is none who has been immune in the valley 
of the Wabash. The weary, aching bones, 
which rendered rest so delicious, the fit of 
shaking and the burning fever, so sure to bring 

71 


BEING SICK 


sympathy and all sorts of dainty food — sweet 
and tender is the reminiscence and the only 
bitter memory it awakens is that of quinine. 
Sometimes malaria attacks a boy during a 
season of holiday — but not often. Usually 
its onset is identical with the beginning of 
harvest. Johnnie was stricken while helping 
shock wheat, and the Hired Hand had to lead 
him to the house. There his mother tucked 
him into the ever-cool bed in the spare-room 
and set Cousin Elmira to minding the flies 
off of him. Then what luxury of earthly 
bliss could equal his ! He closed his eyes 
softly, dreamily in a tranquillity of satisfaction. 
Through the open window came the far-off 
hum of the reaper, but its drowsy tones, 
which had seemed to mock him as he toiled 
a little while ago, were soothing as a lullaby 
now, and, mingled with the song of the wind 
in the maples, the lazy buzzing of flies and 
the clink of dishes in the kitchen. He kept 
his bed resolutely until toward evening. Then 
he crept out to look upon the world again. 
It was all very beautiful and peaceful, with 
just a tinge of twilight sadness. Poor little 
72 


BEING SICK 


invalid ! How he longed to run and play 
again as he used to do — but the chores were 
not done yet. 

But perhaps the most satisfactory state of 
illness to Johnnie was that which, while ren- 
dering him totally unable to work, did not 
incapacitate him from the milder forms of 
amusement, or make such indulgement incon- 
sistent. For this purpose nothing served bet- 
ter than a badly bruised toe, or a boil on the 
knee. Even a fractured limb he would have 
welcomed as not impracticable. Under such 
affliction he was justified in returning to his 
old Noah’s ark and paper soldiers — toys 
which Cousin Henry’s scorn had caused him 
to forsake long ago. A cripple had a right 
to be babyish. He was also permitted to 
whittle in the house, and make all manner of 
musses with impunity. Moreover, there were 
certain rare books, sealed to him in health, to 
which his indisposition gave him free access. 
The wonderful photograph album, with the 
pictures of grandpa and grandma and brave 
Uncle Andrew, who was a sutler in the army, 
and pa and ma when they were first married 
73 


BEING SICK 


and had diamonds and dimples — the former 
at least, supplied by the accommodating artist 
— what a feast of beauty and marvels it was ! 
The ponderous family bible was fully as great 
an attraction. It was worth a good deal of 
physical suffering to be permitted to pore over 
its ancient pages and gaze upon the graphic 
representations of Goliath in the act of being 
slain, of Samson pulling down the temple, of 
John the Baptist’s gory head upon a platter 
and the myriads of big angels with little 
wings on their backs. And he loved, too, to 
study the pictures of the twelve apostles — or 
the twelve epistles — he could never quite re- 
member which it was. 

When these books grew exhausted there 
were the three thick volumes of Agricultural 
Reports, which a generous member of con- 
gress had presented to his father. They were 
replete with familiar illustrations and strange 
words that pleased Johnnie while they puz- 
zled him. It was a wonderful thing to dis- 
cover that the caterpillar, which he had known 
all his life, was really the larva of a lepidop- 
terous insect; that corn was maize, and that 
74 



‘ V 

• • 

'■ i 

1 IV 





















BEING SICK 


cattle died of rinderpest. In one of the books 
was an ornithological table, containing the 
proper names of birds, which was vastly en- 
tertaining and very instructive to aspiring 
agriculturists. He found that the sparrow 
belonged to the fringillidae family; that it 
was gramnivorous and also insectivorous, there- 
fore a friend to the farmer; that the talpa, or 
mole, was a genus of quadrupeds, living 
chiefly underground and feeding upon insects, 
and that silos were good for ensilage. No- 
where else, and under no other conditions, 
could Johnnie have acquired the miscellany of 
information thus afforded. Truly he felt that 
his affliction was a blessing in thin disguise. 
In fact, to Johnnie, the only really unpleasant 
thing about being sick was the getting well. 
There came a time when scarcely a shadow of 
the disease remained, when even the scrupu- 
lous old doctor pronounced him strong and 
well, and the manifold burdens of life had to 
be assumed again. The chores to which he 
had become a stranger began to beckon him 
to the barn, and long neglected errands ran 
to meet him. Yet there was compensation 
75 


BEING SICK 


even for his convalescence. Every denizen of 
the barnyard, excepting the pigs, seemed 
glad of his return. Pluto welcomed him with 
heartiness more than human, and the Hired 
Hand flattered him with kindness and solici- 
tude. 

Aunt Mary came over and made him feel 
especially delicate and spirituelle by her 
anxiety. 

‘ ‘Why, lawsy me, Johnnie, ’ ’ she exclaimed, 
“I wouldn’t a’ known ye! You look so 
peekid an’ thin. Sister, you reely must be 
careful of that boy or you’ll never raise him. 
Has he got his flannel on? Did you ever 
give him burdock tea and dandelion? and 
you surely ain’t lettin’ him go bare-footed, 
are you?” 

Such was the psychical effect of her voluble 
comments that Johnnie crept off to bed again 
and came very near having another chill. 
But a single dose of the prescribed burdock 
compound caused him to rally quickly. 

Johnnie’s gustatory nerves were developed 
far in excess of his sympathetic system. 


76 


IX 

A RURAL SUNDAY 

To Johnnie Sunday was a day of mingled 
joy and regret, of general piety and individ- 
ual wickedness, whose pleasures were sub- 
dued, often surreptitious, and whose duties 
were stiff and irksome, yet, when faithfully 
performed, brought something of balm to the 
conscience. It was but nominally a season of 
rest. True, regular farm work was strictly 
foregone, but the chores, the burden of which 
fell largely on his small shoulders, could not 
be neglected. He had to rise just as early and 
trudge just as far across the pasture in search 
of the cows as on week days. Moreover, the 
sacredness of the day, as interpreted by his 
pious parents, forbade his indulgence in levi- 
tous whistling and loud calling, such as light- 
ened the labor at other times. Secular songs 
were iniquitous, and not to be thought of, and 

77 


A RURAL SUNDAY 


in order to refrain from downright sin, on par- 
ticularly bright Sunday mornings, he was 
sometimes compelled to compromise with the 
spirit of the day and his own exuberance by 
humming the tune of ‘ 'Yankee Doodle’ ’ while 
mentally inserting the words of the doxology. 

Johnnie was incensed by the unusual aban- 
don with which the birds sang on Sunday, 
and while morally shocked at their sinfulness, 
secretly envied them their liberty. It was not 
naughty, he thought, to throw stones at them 
under such a double provocation. But he 
did not dare go far out of his way in their 
pursuit, for he could never dismiss from mind 
a tragic Sabbath-school paper tale of a little 
boy who once followed a strange bird into a 
dark forest with uncanny and distressing re- 
sults. It was a very peculiar bird, with a 
good deal of crimson in its plumage, and it 
led the thoughtless boy on and on until he 
found himself alone in the darkness with a 
terrible thunder storm raging. Then he 
caught the bird, and — horror of horrors! 
Across its flaming breast in letters of black 
was written the word “Sin.” The storm and 
78 


A RURAL SUNDAY 


the darkness were frightful enough, but the 
supernatural inscription the bird bore was ab- 
solutely blood-curdling. This story impressed 
its obvious lesson upon Johnnie, to beware of 
strange birds, especially red ones. 

After chores and breakfast were done, hasty 
preparations were made for Sunday-school. 
Johnnie’s Sunday clothes were brought forth 
and his bare and briar-scarred feet bathed and 
shackled in shoes. Ah ! unhappy necessity 
of encasing this summer’s feet in last winter’s 
shoes ; it was like imprisoning a rosebud in a 
block of ice. A well-dressed boy is always 
a distressed boy. When Johnnie donned his 
Sunday suit he put off the happy good humor 
in which nature had swathed him, and be- 
came as degenerate as Adam after the adop- 
tion of fig-leaf apparel. In his old clothes 
his peccadillos were apt to be of a thought- 
less and harmless character, but when he was 
“dressed up” he was inclined to deliberate 
transgression. On the way to Sunday-school 
he dangled his feet over the “end-gate” of 
the spring wagon and made monstrous faces 
at the boy behind. When the class-room was 
79 


A RURAL SUNDAY 


reached he wriggled and winked and pinched 
his mates and chewed sassafras root, making 
believe it was tobacco ; in short, indulged in 
manifold forms of “original sin.“ In this 
way Johnnie gained the reputation of being a 
very bad boy, when really it was his stiff, ill- 
fitting clothes that were bad. 

Johnnie always remained for church, be- 
cause he had to, and there the diversive alter- 
native of mischief failed him, and he was com- 
pelled to be content with empty sleep or vain 
speculation. But even there his elastic imagi- 
nation was an untold comfort, and the curious 
ideas and vaporous views of things which 
wandered through his mind as the minister 
crept from “firstly” down to “lastly” and 
“again” and “in conclusion” were wonder- 
ful to relate. He wondered why the deacon 
in the pew in front had no hair ; why his head 
was so highly polished ; how it felt to be bald ; 
if he himself would ever be bald, and why 
little boys could not be bald without waiting 
till they grew up. He speculated as to how 
the preacher would look when he became a 
corpulent angel with wings, and as to whether 
8o 


A RURAL SUNDAY 


angels soared like buzzards or flopped their 
wings like chickens or buzzed like flies. He 
wished he had his wings on now, and he knew 
what he would do pretty quick. He would 
not stay there very long. Wouldn’t it make 
a stir, though, if he should suddenly mount to 
the ceiling with a glad flutter and go sailing 
out through the arched window across the 
fields ! How high he would soar, and to what 
mighty distances he would take his flight 1 
With such absurd fancies as these Johnnie 
passed the tedious hours. Little enough of 
the minister’s learned discourse penetrated his 
ears, and less found its way to his compre- 
hension. 

When the final prayer was spoken and the 
benediction pronounced Johnnie, in common 
with many of his elders, and, indeed, some of 
the elders of the church, breathed a sigh of 
relief. 

Home and dinner lay before him, and, al- 
though the Sunday meal was likely to be 
frugal, its crystal water and cold beans com- 
prised a refreshing oasis in the religious des- 
ert round about him. Even a temporary 
6 8i 


A RURAL SUNDAY 


shifting of the wind from a spiritual to a phys- 
ical quarter was comforting to Johnnie. 

After dinner Johnnie’s shoes slipped off by 
magic, and then away the truant feet went 
scurrying across the meadow with a speed 
that took his breath. Sunday afternoon, with 
laziness loitering at his side unrebuked, with 
the air full of shimmering dreams and indus- 
try fast asleep for the day ! Sunday after- 
noon, with bare feet, with straw hat, with the 
thinnest and simplest of garments, with youth, 
with hope, with a world so full of sunshine 
that its warmth overflowed into the shadiest 
nooks — what rare possibilities for pleasure it 
possessed ! 

Down where the brook kept running night 
and day was the favorite trysting place for 
idleness and himself. It was out of view 
from the house and haunted by no spec- 
ter from the world of week days or the pur- 
gatory of Sunday morning. He and the 
dragon flies and water spiders alone knew the 
secret of its placid charms. It was such a 
tiny stream that it often became so nearly 
lost in the marshes of calamus that he had to 
82 





DOWN 
WHERE 
THE BROOk: 
p. 82 


- i 









A RURAL SUNDAY 


stoop to fiAd it, and he could almost stop its 
current with his heel. Miniature water-wheels 
were constructed along its course, and fairy 
boats, which were literal “barks,” were 
launched upon its breast. 

For hours Johnnie would recline on the 
bank, his feet burrowing deep into the soft 
mud, tossing numberless chips into the brook, 
to gaze after them and wonder vaguely, 
dreamily, whither they would drift at last. 
And even as the brook sang its one song and 
dreamed its one dream of the sea the boy’s 
idle musings would turn toward distant man- 
hood, and he would wonder and wonder. 
And the ultimate reach of his boyish imagina- 
tion or the final destiny of the restless brook 
no finite mind may determine. 

Sunday evening drew on, at length, with 
the same monotonous round of chores again. 
The cows were to be gathered in and milked, 
just as if they had never undergone the process 
before, and as the sun went down, seated on 
a three-legged stool, his head pressed con- 
fidingly against old Bundle’s flank, his eyes 
fixed in thoughtful reverie upon the western 

83 


A RURAL SUNDAY 


sky, whether in contemplation of its beauty 
or the beauty beyond, or of some quaint con- 
ception of internal origin, we know not, John- 
nie bade devout adieus to many a rural Sun- 
day, 


84 



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X 


THE COUNTY FAIR 

Perhaps the brightest anniversary in 
Johnnie's calendar was the week in Septem- 
ber which brought the County Fair. Through- 
out the long summer he looked forward to it 
with ever-increasing gladness. There was 
never any question as to whether he should 
be permitted to attend the fair. It was the 
one great place of amusement in his world 
which was eminently proper, where pleasure 
might be indulged in unstintedly without a 
qualm. 

The fair ground, a spacious native grove, 
well set in bluegrass, was situated a mile 
from the corporate limits of the town. For 
eleven months out of each year it was a de- 
serted village. Birds nested in its trees, 
squirrels and chipmunks gamboled in the 
huge horticultural hall and spiders worked 

85 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


geometrical problems in amphitheater and 
bandstand. Its utter emptiness and desola- 
tion was inclined to oppress Johnnie when he 
passed it on occasions! commercial pilgrim- 
ages to the county seat. A painful air of 
vanished glory, of “Vanity Fair,’’ seemed to 
hover about it. 

But annually with the advent of autumn a 
great army of rusticity invaded its precincts 
and, jor the space of one week, it became a 
teeming city in miniature. In a general way 
this sudden transformation was wonderful, 
while its special features were simply miracu- 
lous. 

On the morning of the first day of the fair 
the Winkle household arose bright and early. 
Johnnie awoke from ecstatic dreams with a 
thrill, bounced out of bed and into his clothes 
with supernatural agility and had the horses 
up from the pasture in short order. There 
was but one matter of solicitude to mar his 
joy. The weather — which takes the place of 
fate on the farm — might prove unfavorable. 
Perhaps an inauspicious streak of scarlet 
vapor lay across the face of the sun, or a dim, 
86 



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SPH THE 
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p. 87 



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THE COUNTY FAIR 


slaty mass of clouds hung on the western hori- 
zon, which might easily bring rain, and Johnnie 
waited upon the Hired Hand in a fever of 
anxiety to learn his prediction. 

“You don’t think it’ll rain to-day, do you, 
Eph?’’ he asked with an assumption of con- 
fidence. Then Eph, the astrologer, went 
forth and scanned the heavens, noted the 
direction of the wind and observed the be- 
havior of the stock and various meteorolog- 
ical phenomena. “It all de-pends on the way 
the moon hung last night,” he remarked 
gravely, “which I didn’t notice. The signs 
is mostly favorable” — ^Johnnie’s countenance 
brightened — “fer rain, but I ain’t shore.” 

As the sun mounted higher, however, the 
clouds disappeared, and at eight o’clock the 
family was safely en route. What a glamour 
lay over the world that morning ! How 
gayly, how madly the kaleidoscopic landscape 
circled on countless pivots as the wagon rum- 
bled on! Backward the fences and trees 
of the foreground slipped, smoothly, silently, 
while those in the distance rushed ever for- 
ward, until Johnnie almost convinced himself 
87 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


that he was really standing still between two 
mammoth revolving planes of scenery. 

Once they passed a field where a boy of his 
own size was laboriously cutting weeds, and 
the sight made Johnnie sick. He wondered 
how any mortal could work in that lonely, 
hot field and the fair going on ! That boy’s 
parents were certainly inhuman brutes. 

After a while they found themselves in the 
midst of a long procession of wagons and car- 
riages, and Johnnie could scarcely contain 
himself, because they moved so slowly. A 
mile ahead the fair ground loomed into sight 
and yet it seemed they would never reach it. 
The distant hum of the crowds, like the buzz 
of swarming bees, broke on their ears, and 
presently the beatific strains of the brass band. 

At last they were there. Johnnie could 
hardly realize it, but it was true. The tick- 
ets were handed over, the gates were entered 
and the suppressed hum of happy humanity 
burst into a mighty chorus. Johnnie stood 
up in the wagon and tried to take it all in. 
Rows of canvas tents, big and little, flaming 
pictures, candy stands, striking-machines, 
88 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


shooting-galleries, museums, minstrels, ma- 
gicians and people, people everywhere ! 

“Now, Johnnie, you stay right here in this 
wagon till paw puts the horses away,” Mrs. 
Winkle admonished him, turning round. 

But Johnnie heard her not. His attention 
was fixed upon a beautiful towsle-haired girl, 
who was entwining a monstrous snake about 
her neck. Slipping down he ran in her direc- 
tion to get a nearer view. Immediately he 
was swallowed in the multitude, becoming 
one of its molecular elements to vibrate 
hither and thither, attracted and repelled and 
swept along in irresistible currents through- 
out the day. The spirit of the occasion sat- 
urated him, in everything on exhibition he 
found delight. Climbing into the amphithe- 
ater he looked down in admiration upon 
horses and cattle, such as he saw daily at 
home. He found wonders in the way of 
swine in the pig-sties, petting the baby- 
pigs and calling them “cute” just as did his 
city cousins. For the live-stock at the fair 
was not common live-stock ; the sheep were 
aristocrats, the poultry was pure-bred and 

89 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


took premiums, even the pumpkins on exhi- 
bition were unusual, appearances to the con- 
trary notwithstanding. Just as work may be 
lightened by calling it play, a cow may be 
completely transfigured and glorified by ex- 
hibiting her at the fair. A great^ deal de- 
pends on the point of view. 

Yet the more mysterious exhibition going 
on within the big tent over near the fence was 
by far the greatest attraction, and every path 
Johnnie tried finally led him to its door. A 
large, many-colored banner stretched in front 
illustrated a few of the numerous wonders to 
be seen on the inside, and every now and 
then a mechanically-talking man would come 
out and explain the pictures. The Snake- 
charmer, the Prestidigitateur, the Woman 
with the Iron Jaw and the Wild Man from 
Madagascar were all there — all to be seen for 
the paltry sum of ten cents. The price v^as 
certainly ridiculously low. At the entrance 
sat a little boy, no bigger than Johnnie, who 
turned a hand organ, producing an endless 
strain of sweet music. As Johnnie stood and 
stared, his breast heaved with envy for that 
90 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


boy. Doubtless it was his pa who owned 
the whole show, and he could behold its mar- 
vels whenever he liked. Johnnie wished his 
father would turn showman and let him grind 
the organ. Anyhow he was determined to 
see the inside of the show before he went 
home. 

Eph stepped up behind him. “ See here, 
Sonny,” he cried threateningly, “What you 
mean standin’ roun’ here an’ everybody wait- 
in’ dinner on ye an’ yore maw putty nigh 
dis-tracted ! ” When, a few moments later, 
Johnnie and Eph came upon the family, 
grouped about an immense expanse of snowy 
table linen on the grass, what a feast of all 
that is delicious greeted their eyes ! 

Aunt Mary’s folks had “ joined teams” 
with the Winkles, and the tender chicken, 
rich cake and pies and jams and jellies and 
luscious fruit they brought from their baskets 
were astonishing to look upon. If the fair 
needed a complement to render its pleasures 
ideally perfect, it was found in this picnic din- 
ner. The men and boys lolled on the grass 
and began reaching luxuriously for bread and 

91 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


chicken, while Mrs. Winkle and Aunt Mary 
fluttered about like ministering angels, vying 
with each other to anticipate every want. 
“Have some of this here goose-berry jelly, 
Johnnie,” Aunt Mary would say while Mrs. 
Winkle was piling a mountain of pastry under 
Cousin Henry’s nose; or “Eph, help your- 
self to the pound-cake — though Goodness 
knows it’s the porest I ever baked.” 

Then the two good housewives would get 
together and volubly deplore how the butter 
had not “ gethered ” properly, how the bread 
had refused to rise and how the jam had 
shown signs of “working.” In the mean 
time the men continued to eat heartily and 
promptly to extol everything they tasted. It 
was etiquette for the women to deprecate and 
the men to praise each article of food pro- 
duced. 

The meal was finished at last and in spite 
of gastric heaviness and conscientious scru- 
ples Johnnie made bold to ask his father for a 
dime, and so overflowing was Mr. Winkle’s 
good humor that he responded with a whole 
quarter. 


92 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


The show was soon visited and an extra 
nickel was invested in a glass of red lemon- 
ade, which looked beautiful and which John- 
nie tried to imagine tasted correspondingly. 

Objects of absorbing interest were simply 
innumerable and inexhaustible at the fair. 
There was a man handling writhing coils of 
hot taffy as fearlessly as the girl handled 
snakes ; here was a wealth of golden jewelry 
being given away in prize-boxes ; beyond 
stood a huckster selling handkerchiefs, pen- 
cils and note paper, an armful for a dime. 

Towards evening Johnnie purchased a sack 
of peanuts and, leaning wearily against a tree, 
spent a satisfying half-hour just watching the 
surging masses of people. To one whose en- 
tire life has been spent amid the pastoral 
quiet of the country, there is a peculiar and 
exciting pleasure in seeing crowds. The great 
bustling world of men and women was to 
Johnnie largely a creature of dreams. Daily 
as his mind had developed he had come to 
brood more and more upon its vastness, but 
he found the reality of it all hard to grasp. 
He dreamed of the sea and saw it mirrored in 
93 


THE COUNTY FAIR 


the mill-pond. Brooks answered for rivers 
and the merest hills for mountains. But here 
at the fair only could he get an adequate 
glimpse of the world’s inhabitants collectively 
as they were. Above and beyond all this, as 
he gazed and pondered, he was conscious of 
a thrill of the intoxicating charm of life and 
motion and felt for the first time the tugging 
of that strange, magnetic power of human 
gravity, which yearly draws so many farmer 
boys to town. These potent influences held 
him transfixed, gaping at the multitude until 
it was almost dark ; and when Eph found him 
at last, he followed that worthy monitor to 
the wagon absently, and rode home in a deep 
dream. And the burden of his nebulous med- 
itations, crystallized into words, would have 
run thus : When he became a man he would 
never be content to vegetate on the little 
farm, like a weed in a fence-corner. He 
would become a man of the world ! 


94 


XI 


IN WINTER 

To AGE the wings of time seem ruthlessly 
swift. Every changing season brings fresh 
regrets, and the passing of summer, the wan- 
ing of the sun and the fading of leaves is 
fraught with a sadness akin to despair. It 
is in the autumn that men grow old and 
feeble, and death, having thrown off all dis- 
guise, stalks boldly abroad in the land. Only 
in childhood time plods and the procession 
of the seasons moves too slowly. 

Summer slipped away from Johnnie, unre- 
gretted. Ere it was half over he had begun 
to long for the delights of autumn. By him 
September was greeted as gayly as April and 
winter was welcomed with gladness. 

He awoke one morning and straightway 
knew by instinct that snow had fallen during 
the night. A ‘"feel” was in the air of his 
95 


IN WINTER 


well-ventilated bed chamber, which betok- 
ened snow, and dressing in haste he ran out 
to revel in it. On the eastern sky was a 
gleam of crimson, like the glow in his own 
cheeks, and everywhere, on fence and shed- 
roof, over the fields, up and down the hills, 
even to the verge of the distant, shadow- 
cloistered forest, lay the glittering waste of 
snow, pure and untrodden. Yet to be ac- 
curate there were a few faint tracks upon it 
already, and Johnnie’s eyes were quick to 
observe them. Along the garden fence ran 
a curious little trail, consisting of tiny dots 
on each side of a tortuous but continuous 
line, all disappearing suddenly under a rail; 
and he knew a field mouse had been there. 
Not far away were a few dainty triangular 
imprints where a snow bird had alighted. 
Out in the barnlot was found a labyrinth of 
furrows, crossing and recrossing one another 
in all sorts of fantastic figures, where the 
cows had ambled about. One of these, 
Johnnie proceeded to follow briskly here and 
there until it brought him up to old Brindle, 
shivering with snow-encrusted back, by the 

96 


c 


IN WINTER 

fence, where he had pretended not to see her 
before. The horses, the pigs and the sheep 
all had left separate and characteristic trails 
in the snow, and each was familiar to John- 
nie. It was over in the orchard, though, 
that he discovered the most alluring tracks. 
They consisted of two oblong impressions 
side by side, with a single larger one between 
and slightly behind them, as though made 
by some strange, three-legged creature. 
These groups of imprints were five or six feet 
apart, and extended in a semi-circle across 
the orchard lot. Johnnie studied them with 
the sagacious air of a born huntsman ; and 
not only was he able to determine that they 
had been made by a rabbit, but also in which 
direction and with what speed it had been 
traveling. He had learned how a rabbit in 
running puts its fore feet down close together, 
so that they make but one mark. 

As soon as breakfast was over he armed 
himself and took the trail. In his haste, 
perhaps, he forgot his mittens, but his steamy 
breath had abundant power to warm his 
hands. 


7 


97 


IN WINTER 


The weapon he carried was not dangerous. 
It was just a rusty old ax. Across the 
meadow, down the hollow, into the silent heart 
of the woods he trudged, unmindful of time 
or distance. Sometimes the tracks led him 
among brambles and dense underbrush, and 
now and then the wind shook a crackling 
shower of icicles down upon him, but he 
pushed on undaunted. Once as he wallowed 
through a drift, the snow sifted into the gap- 
ing tops of his boots; but, seating himself 
upon a frigid stump, he deliberately pulled 
them off and emptied them. The frost nip- 
ped at his ears in vain. He was proof against 
cold. Boys have been sent on errands and 
found frozen to death ; they have started off 
to school and met with the same fate ; but no 
boy was ever known to suffer from the cold 
in the least when hunting rabbits. 

After a long, but exciting tramp Johnnie 
came to a point where the trail “doubled” 
upon itself, and this was a sign that the game 
was not far away. Sure enough the tracks 
presently terminated abruptly in a hollow log 
and the rabbit was successfully “treed.” 

98 


IN WINTER 


Then began a series of scientific maneuvers 
looking to its capture. A rabbit at the end 
of an oaken tunnel, ten feet in length and six 
inches in diameter, is pretty securely fortified 
against a small boy. But Johnnie was artful. 
Selecting a long hazel pole, he carefully sharp- 
ened two prongs upon the smaller end. With 
this instrument the animal was readily located. 
And now a very cruel and revolting process 
was resorted to — one which it is painful to de- 
scribe. Yet from Johnnie’s standpoint “twist- 
ing” a rabbit was as much a matter of course 
as is opening an oyster to a longshoreman. 
The forked stick was entangled in the rabbit’s 
fur and given a rotary motion. Then a swift 
and forceful withdrawal caused a plaintive 
squeal and brought forth a little fur, with 
some cuticle clinging to it. This operation 
was repeated again and again ; but bunny per- 
sistently refused to be dislodged, and it be- 
came evident that other measures would be 
required. So Johnnie executed a final coup 
(P etat. Plugging up the open end of the log, 
he grasped the ax and began chopping a hole 
directly over her position. It was a laborious 
99 


IN WINTER 


undertaking, but after a half hour’s work, the 
denuded and dying rabbit was secured. True, 
from a culinary point of view it was worthless, 
for the dirt and hair adhering to its skinless 
flesh could never be successfully removed; 
but this circumstance did not detract from 
Johnnie’s exultation. Slinging it over his 
shoulder by way of magnifying its weight and 
lending dignity to the affair, he proceeded 
manfully on the homeward march. 

, The way home was very long — much 
longer, apparently, than the tortuous trail 
which had led him hither, and more hilly. 
The ax also seemed to have gained materially 
in weight, and was extremely burdensome. 
When, after reaching home, his mother sent 
him out to chop some stove wood he could 
hardly wield the implement at all. It took 
him half an hour to cut six small sticks, and 
at the end of that time he was almost frozen, 
too. He was convinced that such exposure 
to wintry weather was injurious, and was not 
surprised to discover that his throat was sore 
next morning. 

Tracking rabbits was but one of many 
100 


IN WINTER 


delights which winter rendered possible. 
Coasting, skating and the molding of snow 
men received due attention from Johnnie; but 
the absence of proper playmates made such 
sports a trifle monotonous at times. Snow- 
balling his two unfailing companions, Pluto 
and Eph, was not satisfactory, because the 
latter responded too vigorously and the for- 
mer not at all. 

In winter there was a notable unpleasant- 
ness connected with doing the chores. John- 
nie could never understand how the cows 
managed to survive the winter. Certainly 
their chafed udders were the coldest, clam- 
miest things with which he ever came in con- 
tact. He could not milk in mittens, and as he 
coaxed forth the life-giving fluid shiveringly 
with blue bare fingers, he often wondered why 
it did not appear as ice cream. 

Another decidedly rough task was that of 
hauling in fodder. This had to be done daily 
in cold weather, for the cattle’s stomachs 
were insatiable. A shock of fodder, which 
has stood in the wind and rain all fall, 
and has been crowned and crystallized by win- 
lOI 


IN WINTER 


ter’s snow and ice, resembles adamant. To 
pull it apart and load it upon a sled in arctic 
weather is a tedious and trying operation. 
A succession of kicks from heavy boot heels 
loosened the “butts”; then a long and a 
strong pull served to separate a few stalks ; 
and these, when laid upon the sled, never so 
carefully, were likely to be scattered far and 
wide by the next gust of wind. 

But the winter evenings were long and 
cheerful, and an afternoon spent in the bitter 
cold rendered the tropical warmth of the fire- 
place all the more comforting. The fire-place 
was the sacred altar of the Winkle household, 
whose vestal fires were never permitted to 
languish. After supper Mrs. Winkle always 
took tongs and shovel and prepared a ruddy 
bed among the coals for the new backlog, 
which Eph bore in puffingly and rolled into 
place with plaintive groans. Then Mr. Win- 
kle brought the forestick and some dry 
clapboards for kindling ; and after a few min- 
utes of sullen smoldering, the flames leaped 
merrily aloft with the refrain of a soaring lark. 

Then it was that Johnnie, ensconced in his 
102 



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\ 


IN WINTER 


own little chair, with Pluto at his side, dreamed 
the sweetest dreams and formed the fondest 
ties of all his boyhood. The conversation of 
the family group was apt to be broken and 
desultory. Sometimes Eph would regale 
them with extended extracts from his remark- 
able biography, and Johnnie would listen in 
wonder while his father dozed ; occasionally 
Mr. Winkle would become retrospective and 
relate ancient anecdotes of his own youth — 
when the pasture field was a woodland swarm- 
ing with ‘wolves — until Mrs. Winkle grew ten- 
derly reminiscent and the two would go back 
over the years hand in hand, in fond allusions 
which Johnnie but dimly understood; but 
oftener they all sat in peaceful silence, accen- 
tuated by the steady tick of the clock, the 
creaking of his mother’s rocking-chair and the 
clink of her busy knitting needles, and these 
were the times which Johnnie recalled long 
afterwards as the happiest of all. Few, per- 
haps, are the educational advantages of the 
rustic-born, but every farmer boy learns early, 
and none ever forgets, the truest, most hal- 
lowed meaning of the word. Home. 

103 


XII 


CHRISTMAS 

Throughout the greater part of the year 
Johnnie took little note of the almanac. In a 
vague way he knew that there were certain 
rules between its green covers which con- 
trolled the movements of the sun and moon, 
and he had often seen Eph sagely consulting 
its pages when forecasting the weather. 
Moreover he was somewhat familiar with the 
distressful symbolical picture of the mutilated 
man, surrounded by twins, scorpions and 
goats, which embellished the first page, but 
beyond this he seldom penetrated. 

As winter drew on, however, the book an- 
nually acquired a new interest for him, and 
from Thanksgiving day to Christmas he was 
given to studying its calendar continuously. 
In fact the first exhaustive use he ever made 
of his limited knowledge of mathematics was 
104 


CHRISTMAS 


in making repeated calculations as to just how 
many days remained until Christmas, the num- 
ber of which he would carefully chalk down 
upon the casing of the mantel over the fire- 
place, as if he were in danger of forgetting it. 
Johnnie was a true and faithful believer in 
Christmas, and reveled in its joyous anticipa- 
tions. For many weeks he dreamed of its 
wonders night and day. But he had already 
grown too old to believe the legend of Santa 
Claus any more, and his scrupulous parents 
had taken pains to undeceive him as to that 
time-honored myth. Really he would have 
been very loath to believe them, however, 
upon this point (it is so much easier to retain 
confidence in the idol-builder than in the 
iconoclast) had not his own sharp eyes taught 
him the stern truth of their assertion. 

One memorable Christmas eve he had ac- 
cidentally awakened at the critical hour, and 
had discovered, with less than half an eye, 
that it was his mother who was heaping things 
into his gaping stockings. And so he no 
longer believed in good old St. Nicholas, and 
yet, down in his boyish heart, he could not 

105 


CHRISTMAS 


quite become disillusioned. It is so difficult 
to unlearn the delightful delusions of child- 
hood that it can only be completely accom- 
plished with the help of dull, disenchanting 
years. Ah, the long, long lessons to be un- 
learned — how hard and numerous they are ! 
Some never succeed in unlearning them all, 
and so much the better. 

In the light of day Johnnie was practically 
sure that no Santa Claus existed, but at night, 
after he had said his prayer and crept into 
bed, his fancy grew active, and he was in- 
clined to reconsider the matter. Perhaps 
after all the old tale was true ; perhaps his 
parents had only been making believe that it 
was false. When he was such a little boy 
that he wore dresses he remembered how his 
mother would take him on her lap and tell 
him the story of the children’s saint. Then 
she would relate that other wondrous tale of 
the Christ-child born in a manger. The latter 
story still held true, and why not the other? 
Across his dreams came the tinkle of sleigh- 
bells and the tread of reindeer hoofs once 


CHRISTMAS 


more, and over his sleeping face hovered the 
childish smile of infinite trust and faith. 

Christmas eve, when at last it really came, 
was a time of glorious hopes and possibilities. 
The chores were done with a will that night. 
The horses and cattle received double their 
accustomed “feed,” and the wood-box be- 
hind the kitchen stove was piled mountain 
high with wood. It was a time of general 
good cheer; moreover Santa Claus, or some 
of his minions, might be lurking near and it 
was policy to let one’s virtues shine. After 
supper a round of merriment was indulged in 
by the entire household, ending in a royal 
game of blind man’s buff. Then came the 
happy ceremony of hanging up the stockings, 
and after that, the tedious almost impossible 
endeavor to get to sleep. 

“Now go right to sleep and Christmas will 
be here before you can wink,” Mrs. Winkle 
would say encouragingly. So Johnnie would 
close his eyes and begin to snore as soon as 
he touched the bed. But Morpheus was not 
to be won by shamming. Presently the eyes 
popped open and the snores ended in wake- 
107 


CHRISTMAS 


ful sighs. Then every known expedient was 
tried by turns . J ohnnie endeavored to imagine 
that it was not Christmas eve at all, but the 
day after Christmas, or the night of the fourth 
of July, and that there was nothing whatever 
to look forward to; but all to no avail. He 
sang to himself, told himself stories, pounded 
on the bedstead and turned over and over and 
over until the bed-clothes tumbled to the 
floor. Finally in the midst of a profound at- 
tempt to think of still another alternative he 
fell asleep. 

At three in the morning he woke with a 
start and immediately dressed and stole down 
stairs. The night had already stretched into ^ 
arctic length and he could endure the sus- 
pense no longer. The fire was low in the 
fire-place and the room seemed a very den of 
uncanny shadows. But through the gloom 
his distorted stockings were faintly discerni- 
ble, beckoning him with irresistible allurings. 
He crept up to them. Yes, they were 
filled to overflowing, and upon a chair near 
by was a wonderful surplus of mysterious 
packages. Christmas morning dawned at 
io8 


CHRISTMAS 


last with its unforgetable feasts and fun. 
No work was to be done that day. Gay- 
ety and good cheer were the universal or- 
der. Even ordinary methods of pastime 
were not to be thought of. Everything had 
to be unusual and splendid. Aunt Mary and 
her family were there for dinner and Uncle 
Andrew came out from the city with his 
pockets full of store candy and fire-crackers. 
And what a glorious, deafening, sulphurous 
pandemonium ensued ! Dinner was a sunip- 
tuous meal but fraught with mockery for 
Johnnie, already surfeited with sweetmeats. 

But how quickly it all passed ! The sun 
went down shortly after dinner, and just as 
Johnnie felt himself nearing the zenith of 
earthly bliss, lo, it was bedtime again. What 
multitudes of childhood’s chief delights have 
been interrupted by that inevitable hour! 
Bed-time always comes just at the most inter- 
esting stage and — presto, the game is ended. 
Even to the poor, gray-headed child of four- 
score it is ever the same — the last late bed- 
time finds him weary and heavy-eyed per- 


109 


CHRISTMAS 


haps, but wakeful still and eager to play 
“just a little while longer.” 

To Johnnie it was all blotted out in a 
strange, jumbled dream and a deep sleep. 
And on the morrow the sky was overcast, a 
dismal, drizzling rain was falling and Christ- 
mas was a whole long year off ! 


no 


s 


XIII 


THE ploughman’s WEARY WAY 

The flowers on the hillside unfold no more 
gladly, no more trustfully under the showers 
and sunshine of April than does the heart of 
boyhood. They are emblems of each other 
— youth and spring — and there is a kinship 
between them, an ancient kinship which it 
were necessary to return to the Maytime of 
creation to trace. 

Springtime is ever generous and true to the 
boy. To him she sends her earliest greet- 
ings, to him her promises are most lavish and 
to him she keeps them, every one. Signs of 
the approach of spring to which men are 
blind, tokens which the poet perceives not, 
are revealed to him. 

What is the first unfailing harbinger of 
spring? Not the fickle bluebird that comes 
flashing down the fence, like an elusive bit of 
summer sky, nor the rash, uncertain crocus, 
111 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


struggling beneath the snow. Poetic sym- 
bols of spring they may be, but they proph- 
esy nothing. 

But the boy knows the old gray mare is 
inspired. One crisp morning he gallops her, 
bareback, up from the pasture and, on dis- 
mounting, finds his trouser’s legs thickly 
frosted with her silver hair. 

There is not a bird in sight, the landscape 
is dull and barren, but he has visible proof 
that spring is near. 

Do not imagine that nature denies him her 
more subtle auguries, however. On the con- 
trary it is to the boy that the sunbeams bear 
their earliest messages and the south wind 
seeks him first of all. The twitter of the pio- 
neer robin is caught by his ear and he notes 
the first faint ‘ ‘ quank ’ ’ of the flock of wild 
geese, pursuing its northward course across 
the unknown ocean of the upper air. 

When at last spring comes creeping up the 
valley, the boy goes forth to meet her, and 
his heart leaps in unison with the glad pulses 
of universal life. 

He is an artist beyond all bounds of art ; a 
I 12 





. . OLD GRAY 
MARE 

IS inspired 

P. 112 












THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


poet above the trammel of words and, being 
such, he is content to gaze upon the land- 
scape without analyzing it and is satisfied 
with the perfume of the commonest flower. It 
is not simply the glimmer of reflected sun- 
shine that delights him, not the mere exter- 
nal beauty of the fields and the balm of the 
gentle weather. 

These are but harmonious incidents to the 
boy, for he communes with the vernal spirit 
of the season, he knows the true inner es- 
sence — that wondrous beauty of the heart of 
things, and he becomes an integral part of 
the landscape, blooming with the flowers, 
whistling with the birds and exulting with all 
nature. And all the while he is as uncon- 
scious of this relationship, as spontaneous 
and unaccountable as are the birds. 

He finds a thrush’s nest and robs it ruth- 
lessly while the thrush is away preying upon 
insect life. He tosses a careless clod at a 
chattering jay, which, in turn, proceeds to 
chase a flock of inoffensive sparrows out of 
the woods. 

Perhaps this very wantonness of boy and 
8 113 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


bird is the secret of their exultation and en- 
chantment. 

Yet, while leaf and blossom are but in- 
cidents of the season to the boy, he is the 
keenest of observers and no detail escapes 
him. He is a naturalist in a literal sense and 
figuratively a pantheist. The billowy verd- 
ure of the meadow impresses him, but no 
more than the vast minutiae of underlife be- 
neath it. 

Parting the grass, he becomes a gigantic 
member of the colony of ants, a fellow of the 
order of the grasshoppers and a companion to 
the beetle and the snail. Entering the clois- 
ter of the forest he is straightway a primeval 
druid. 

He comes close to each phase of sylvan ex- 
istence, climbing deftly to the upper haunts 
of birds and squirrels, and scraping beneath 
the leaves to find the hidden abode of grubs 
and “doodle-bugs.’’ The caterpillar and the 
slug on the mossy side of tree-trunks and the 
busy spider, oscillating between two worlds, 
are familiar to him. 

Wherever ^the boy goes he finds adequate 
114 



BILLOWY 
VERDURE Or 
THE meadow 

p. 1 *4 












THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


expression of the season’s gladness. Even 
the domestic denizens of the barnyard are 
found as vociferous in their joy as their cous- 
ins of the field. All day long the turkey- 
cock struts and gobbles in a passion of proud 
delight, throwing back a bubbling, half-chal- 
lenging salute to every sound he hears, and 
when all else fails, replying to his own ridicu- 
lous echo in jeer after jeer. 

More sedate and sentimental the chickens 
go ambling here and there with meditative 
duckings and croonings and occasional out- 
bursts of wonder at the warmth of the sun and 
the plumpness of worms. The male of their 
tribe frequently lifts his voice in applause and 
is inclined to all manner of levity, shocking 
the nervous hens into hysterics by announc- 
ing make-believe hawks, and creating general 
disgust by calling them all to a great feast and 
then laughingly eating every morsel himself. 

The boy sees it all and recognizes kindred 
spirits beneath down and feathers and nature 
back of all. 

It is only after spring has waxed into sum- 
mer and youth has waned into manhood that 
IIS 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


the boy, having become a reflective being, 
and having lost that sixth sense of insight, 
becomes impressed unduly with the outward 
charm of things. Remembering the by-gone 
happiness of spring and recalling its sweet 
symbols he is apt to attribute the one to the 
other, knowing not, in the ignorance of ma- 
turity, that it was potential joy which brought 
forth bloom and song, and not they which 
caused the joy. 

Johnnie had reached the mature age of 
thirteen when it was decided that instead of 
attending school during the summer, he must 
make a hand on the farm. It was one of the 
most joyful epochs in his life, and, in his 
memory, stood ever next to the proud day 
upon which he donned his first pair of pants. 

As soon as the delightful decree had been 
pronounced, he stole out to the barn and 
secretly practiced holding the plow-handles, 
which came almost to his armpits. The im- 
plement was jerked about manfully, while he 
urged his imaginary horses forward, swearing 
a little under his breath and expectorating be- 
tween his teeth after the manner of the Hired 
ii6 



ENTERING 
THE CLOISTER 
OF THE 
FOREST 
P. 1 14 
















THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


Hand. This rehearsal he repeated daily until 
the season opened and plow-time was at hand. 

What a glorious spring it was ! Almost as 
far back as he could remember heretofore he 
had been compelled to start to school just as 
wild flowers and birds’ nests were beginning 
to be seductively interesting. But that season 
he was free. Each morning he was the first 
one astir about the place, and there was an 
overflowing, liquid delight in his whistle that 
made the brown thrush pause and listen. 

The eventful day came at last. Johnnie 
was to perform a man’s work. With digni- 
fied tread he followed his plow into the “new 
ground,” thick with stumps, where his mettle 
was to be tested. It was severe and exasper- 
ating labor. The horses were stubborn and 
the unwieldy plow was forever becoming en- 
tangled in the underground net-work of roots. 
At night Johnnie retired footsore and weary, 
and yet by no means disheartened or even 
disillusioned. 

There was a wondrous, unforgetable charm 
for him in these first brief days of plow-time. 
The subtle odor of opening flowers and fresh 
117 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


foliage mingled with the mellow aroma of up- 
turned sod and the spicy incense of burning 
stumps and logs. Every cool breeze from 
the adjacent woods brought a multitude of 
merry songs and chirpings, while the eye was 
greeted on every hand by those delicate, 
velvety tints of green, of yellow, red and blue, 
which belong only to the springtime. 

In the midst of this bower of beauty walked 
Johnnie, doing a man’s work. Perhaps after 
all it was the tremendous importance of this 
task as much as the charm of his surround- 
ings which made him in love with the whole 
world. 

When the full-blown summer came, how- 
ever, it found him growing weary and rest- 
less, though he would not confess the fact, 
even to himself. Inwardly, almost unconsci- 
ously, he wished he could retire to his com- 
fortable place at school for a while. 

The sun had grown relentlessly hot, and 
the birds had gone so deep into the forest that 
their sleepy twittering was but barely audible. 
All the more dainty, modest flowers had shed 
their petals and succumbed to a host of coarse 
Ii8 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


weeds, while lurking thorns and brambles lay 
everywhere in waiting to vex bare feet. 

In the space of six weeks the corn had 
climbed up to Johnnie’s shoulders, and through 
the long, lonely afternoons, as he followed 
the plow back and forth across the field, like 
a huge monotonous shuttle, weaving a vast 
woof of green and black, his courage and in- 
dustry faltered sadly. 

There was little rest to be found within 
the confines of the corn-field. As often as he 
halted his team and mounted the fence for a 
“breathing spell’’ a swarm of flies and mos- 
quitoes hovered round him, while a choir of 
tiny gnats sang a shrill falsetto in his ears. 

The rainy day now came to be Johnnie’s 
one great hope and consolation, and he kept an 
ever-watchful eye upon the weather. A cloud 
no bigger than his hand was greeted with 
satisfaction, and the rumble of distant thunder 
was music to him. And when a shower came 
slanting across the landscape, with what as- 
tonishing alacrity did he unhitch his horses 
and gallop to the barn. 

There was no comfort in after life to be 
119 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


compared to that which was his as he lolled 
in the mow and listened to the clatter of the 
rain on the clapboard roof above and the rest- 
ful munching of the horses eating hay below. 

“This here’s a reg’lar ol’ sockdolager!” 
observed Eph approvingly. 

“It’ll make it too wet to plow, won’t it?” 
asked Johnnie. 

“Well, I should reckon,” was the gratify- 
ing response. “Doubt if we don’t git to plow 
no more this week.” 

Johnnie’s eyes shone gleefully at this, and 
he involuntarily brought forth a tangle of fish 
lines ^ from his pocket. But just then the 
rain, after a cruelly reassuring dash, suddenly 
ceased. Johnnie hastened out. He scratched 
into the earth with his toes and found — dust 
at the depth of an inch ! 

The rainbow in the east was anything but a 
symbol of hope to him. The western sky 
was clearing, and with redoubled intensity the 
hot sun poured its rays upon the humid earth. 

“Hurry back to the field, boys,” called 
Mr. Winkle from the house, “this shower’ll 
start the weeds agin.” 


120 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


At such a time the corn-field presented all 
the essentials of a Turkish bath. As John- 
nie walked between the rows of corn every 
blade of every stalk emptied a stream of warm 
water down his back, while the moist ground 
exhaled a palpable and penetrating steam. 

But “into each life some rain must fall,” 
and happily for Johnnie the showers were not 
always of such brief duration. 

Sometimes it rained constantly for days to- 
gether. Then was Johnnie thoroughly reju- 
venated once more. He did not dread get- 
ting wet, when in pursuit of pleasure. In 
fact he seemed to revel and luxuriate in the 
rain, and, with trousers rolled high above his 
knees, dabbled up and down the creek like a 
young ichthyosaurus. 

Continued “wet spells” were rare, how- 
ever, long, withering droughts being much 
more frequent; and thus the summer days 
dragged on in tedious repetition. 

But even in the drudgery of plowing corn 
Johnnie was not entirely deserted by his 
dreams. Often fair visions wavered in the air 
about him, and in his ears there seemed to 
I2I 


THE PLOUGHMAN’S WEARY WAY 


sound far strains of mystic music. Low 
down on the eastern horizon he noticed a 
dusky cloud of smoke which marked the po- 
sition of the distant city. 

As time went by this metropolitan specter 
acquired a fascination for Johnnie. Day 
after day he gazed at it dreamily as it drifted 
along, and every new fantastic shape it as- 
sumed seemed to beckon to him across the 
fields. An indefinable longing came over 
him, and, out of the immaterial smoke, his 
fancy built strange and wonderful air-castles. 

Slowly the simple country life was losing 
its charm for him. The little world into 
which he had been born was growing too nar- 
row to live in. He wondered how his father 
and his neighbors had borne such a barren 
existence. And slowly but surely, the half- 
formed wish became a fixed resolve: He 
would some day go to the city. 


122 


XIV 


BUDDING 

While Johnnie’s material world contracted, 
his intellectual outlook grew somewhat wider. 
As the hedge of forest, which formed his hor- 
izon, drew nearer, the mystery beyond it 
grew less dense. And yet, as things once 
strange became familiar, new wonders, un- 
dreamed of, came into view. Physically, 
spiritually, sentimentally Johnnie was chang- 
ing, was developing; yet this evolution was 
imperceptibly slow. 

Each morning the same little boy appeared 
at the Winkle breakfast table who had eaten 
supper there the night before ; but each 
Christmas a new boy hung up larger stock- 
ings, and every May-day was greeted by a 
comparative stranger. 

Among the new and peculiar physical traits 

123 


“BUDDING” 


which his thirteenth summer brought him was 
a notable and ungainly lankness. His limbs 
approached the length and ungraceful contour 
of an anthropoid ape’s, and came unjointed. 
Similarly strange mental characteristics were 
evinced. He became excessively shy and 
self-conscious, blushing more readily than of 
yore. 

In fact Johnnie had reached that nameless, 
incongruous stage of youthfulness, of which 
the nonsensical term “hobbledehoy” is our 
only fitting appellation. Though still a little 
boy, he was no longer a child ; though ap- 
proaching manhood, he was yet far from 
manhood’s estate. 

There is no way to describe and no way to 
account for the boy between the ages of 
twelve and fifteen. He is an anomaly — an 
inconsistent, illogical, indeterminate, im- 
proper fraction, with a variable numerator and 
an unknown denominator. No one under- 
stands him and least of all does he understand 
himself. 

When the girl arrives at womanhood’s 
threshold she simply does up her hair, length- 
124 


“ BUDDING 


ens her skirts and trips gracefully in. But 
the boy is made to linger at manhood’s door, 
awkwardly shifting his feet, for an indefinite 
period. 

Among the legion of unstable, quixotic 
qualities which go to make up the hobblede- 
hoy, there is one nearly constant and always 
significant. This is his novel and reverential 
admiration for womankind . H eretofore J ohn- 
nie had formed certain boyish attachments for 
particular girls, usually greatly his senior, 
but, for their race in general, he had a su- 
preme contempt. 

Girls, as he had observed them, were weak 
and cowardly and inclined to be ‘ ‘goody-good- 
ies” and tattle-tales. But now, by some 
strange miracle, the scales bad dropped from 
his eyes, and, whichever way he turned, he 
seemed to find new phases of feminine beau- 
ty. Maidens with whom he had played and 
quarreled all his life began to wear halos. 
Freckled faces shone with lily-whiteness, snub 
noses assumed graceful outlines and brown 
eyes, and blue, were alike beautiful and 
bright. 


125 


“BUDDING 


Perhaps this transformation was not alto- 
gether fancied — no doubt the girl-buds of his 
own age were beginning to unfold a little pre- 
tentious color here and there; but chiefly, it 
was a subjective illusion, and in its effects it 
was purely, nay, painfully such. 

Johnnie’s very meditations grew altered. 
Plans for the remote future were relinquished 
in favor of more immediate accomplishments. 
He became concerned not so much with what 
he should do when a man as what he should 
do next week. Such trivial, temporal mat- 
ters as dress commanded his attention, and 
he took to washing his face and hands volun- 
tarily. On Sunday afternoons he went no 
more into the depths of the forest, but lolled 
listlessly at its verge. 

Gradually his day-dreams accustomed them- 
selves largely to the sweet theme of love, and 
out of odd fragments of experience and fancy 
an ideal of feminine loveliness was formed in 
his breast. 

Johnnie was altogether unconscious of this 
creative process, and scarcely recognized the 
import of his brooding. But, with the length- 
126 


BUDDING 


ening of his legs and arms, with the expand- 
ing of his mentality and the augmentation of 
awkwardness, the ideal grew. 

When one day Fate — if Fate may be truly 
said to interest herself with such affairs — 
brought the dreamy boy into contact with 
Miss Mabel Meadows, queenly twelve-year- 
old daughter of the new neighbor, who had 
purchased the Shanks place, straightway the 
subtle, shadowy ideal became a living, palpi- 
tating reality. 

It happened in a properly romantic way. 
Johnnie was roving through the woods knight- 
errantly in a desultory search for adventure 
and his father’s cows, when he was startled to 
hear a sudden cry of alarm near at hand. 
Parting the hazel brush he beheld a very pale, 
very young lady apparently paralyzed with 
fear, and a very small garter snake in a simi- 
lar state, staring fixedly at each other. 

Johnnie did not know the girl, and hesi- 
tated to announce himself without having had 
an introduction, but the snake presently 
started to wriggle away, and it was against 
the vows of his order to permit a snake to 
127 


“BUDDING 


escape. So he charged gallantly through the 
brush, and in another moment was holding 
the squirming reptile at arm’s length by the 
tail. 

“Ooh! Ooh! Ooh!” shrieked the young 
lady. 

“What you ’fraid of?” asked Johnnie, 
grinningly. “It ain’t pizen.” 

“Oh, the horrid thing!” cried she. 

“Jist watch me settle its hash,” said John- 
nie fearlessly; and amid renewed screams on 
the girl’s part, he proceeded to lash the hap- 
less serpent against a tree. 

“Now I guess it won’t scare no more girls,” 
he remarked, tossing it to the ground. 

But the girl had begun to sob piteously, 
and this disturbed Johnnie. He stared at her 
a few moments and then observed doubtfully, 
“It wasn’t a pet snake, was it?” 

“O dear no,” she murmured. “It was 
wild, and was goin’ to bite me if — if you 
hadn’t come.” 

Johnnie could not restrain a smile of deris- 
ion. “Aw, it wouldn’t bite a flea,” said he. 
“It ain’t that kind. Say, I’m goin’ to turn 
128 


BUDDING 


it on its back, so it’ll rain. If you leave a 
snake on its — its — stomick it won’t rain at 
all.” 

“What kind is it?” asked the girl, coming 
nearer. 

”Oh, it’s a common enough kind,” he 
answered evasively. He did not like to tell 
her its rather indelicate name. 

“Yes, but what kind,” she persisted. 

“Aw, what you hold your stockin’s up 
with,” he stammered, blushing violently. 

“Oh,” said she. Then there was an awk- 
ward silence, during which the girl glanced 
shyly at Johnnie, and Johnnie gazed at the 
dead snake. 

“What’s your name?” she asked presently, 
toying with her apron. 

“Jawn Winkle,” said he sheepishly, 
“What’s your’n?” 

“My name is Mabel — Mabel Meadows,” 
she responded. 

Another pause ensued, and the girl care- 
fully adjusted her bonnet. 

Then “Good-bye, John,” she exclaimed, 
turning upon him with a sudden radiant 
9 129 


BUDDING 


smile; and, with fairy-like lightness and 
grace, she drifted away. 

“Good-bye, Mabel,” cried Johnnie hoarse- 
ly, when he had recovered his voice. But 
she was gone. 

A soft golden gleam illumined the woods 
and a vernal odor, as of fresh-blown violets, 
permeated the air. A dove in a distant tree- 
top nodded approvingly and gave voice to 
the tender sentiments, welling up in the heart 
of all nature, in mellifluous coo after coo. 
And, although Johnnie seemed oblivious to 
these circumstances now, many a time after- 
ward he recalled every detail with distinct- 
ness. 

For months to come he never heard the 
moaning of a dove, nor killed a snake, with- 
out thinking of the day he first met Mabel. 

How long he lingered on this hallowed 
spot he knew not; but at length he roused 
from a reverie and, taking up the snake as a 
memento of the occasion, started home. 

He was still so absorbed in thought that 
the cows were forgotten, and it was not until 


130 



TAKING UP 
THE SNAKS 
P. 130 






A 




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• 1 * 



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I ", 




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t 


s 


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4^ 

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t ' • 

i ‘ 

* ' 











BUDDING 


he entered the barnyard bearing his reptilian 
treasure, that his wits returned. 

Henceforth Mabel Meadows was the angel 
of Johnnie’s dreams. He remembered her in 
his prayers and thought of her whenever 
tempted to rob a bird’s nest or swear. 

It is an instinct of the hobbledehoy to con- 
ceal his ardent passion religiously. He will 
allow it to eat his heart, will suffer upon the 
rack, and not reveal it. And the principal 
cause of this secretiveness is not really the sa- 
cred nature of his love, nor a tendency to be 
selfish, but the haunting fear of being “ made 
fun of.” 

A boy would rather be lashed with a cat- 
o’-nine tails than be laughed at. 

No murderer ever guarded his crime more 
scrupulously than did Johnnie conceal his 
love. He mentioned Mabel’s name to no 
one, and did not even permit himself to think 
of her, except when alone. 

One day when Mr. Meadows came to see 
his father, Johnnie ran and hid for fear his se- 
cret might in some way be discovered, after- 


“BUDDING 


wards asking Eph who the visitor was, as if 
he had no idea. 

When school opened that fall Johnnie 
started in a fever of expectancy. All the 
way he argued with himself pro and con, as 
to whether Mabel would be likely to be there, 
and formulated a careful schedule of what his 
behavior should be in either case. How his 
heart thumped as he drew near and beheld 
her, standing alone on the stiles ! 

But a group of boys sat on the fence not 
far away, and banishing all former plans, 
Johnnie suddenly resolved to pretend not to 
know her. That seemed to be the only out- 
let for escaping his mates’ ridicule. 

Assuming an air of easy carelessness, he 
sauntered on. “Howd’y, John,” whispered 
the girl as he brushed past her. 

Johnnie’s face flushed and his heart beat so 
loudly that he had no doubt she heard it, but 
he offered no sign of recognition. 

This apparently unprovoked slight cut Ma- 
bel to the quick. Yet, if she had only 
known it, Johnnie was wounded by it much 
more seriously than she. 

132 



. . BEHELD 
HER 

STANDING 
ALONE ON 
THE STILES 

P. 132 




BUDDING” 


^ If she but knew ’ ’ — he whispered to him- 
self week after week. But he could no more 
tell her than if he had been born dumb. 


133 


XV 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 

Of all the phenomena of boyhood, per- 
haps, the state of being bashful is the most 
ridiculous and, subjectively, the most rueful. 
It is the fate of most boys to pass through a 
more or less prolonged period of bashfulness ; 
but, like the measles and mumps, it is an 
affliction which varies greatly in different in- 
dividuals. In extreme cases it is probable 
that it has suppressed and ruined what might 
have been brilliant careers; that Miltons have 
been rendered forever mute and inglorious by 
its bane. 

Now and then a boy is found whose bash- 
fulness is so pronounced that his freckles 
stand out on a facial background of continual 
blushes, like flecks of rust on a red apple, 
and his eyes, which really have less cause to 
be downcast than the optics of any of his 

134 




THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


elders, are constantly averted, so that their 
color is a matter of conjecture. 

Such a boy is simply a ruddy, palpitating 
bundle of mortification. He is never at ease 
— never his natural self, save when alone. He 
is always making ludicrous blunders, and is 
always painfully aware of them. The knowl- 
edge that he is bashful tortures him, and this 
self-consciousness in turn serves to render his 
bashfulness more intense. Wherever he goes 
he is a self-imposed martyr, refraining from 
activity for fear of attracting notice, his stud- 
ied efforts to keep in the background all the 
while making him conspicuous. 

Johnnie Winkle, who had been at different 
periods a good boy, a cute boy, a pert 
boy, a mischievous and sometimes a bad 
boy, became known far and wide as a bash- 
ful boy. He was confessedly afraid of girls. 
Other boys whom he could outrun, outjump, 
spell down and thrash, easily surpassed him 
in grace and gallantry. Every recess friends 
and enemies of his joined the girls in gay 
games of forfeit and “Rowser,’’ without em- 
barrassment. Yet he could not even ad- 
135 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


dress a coherent remark to a girl. It was a 
lamentable, woful weakness to a boy of John- 
nie’s spirit. He lay awake of nights heaping 
imprecations upon it, and resolved to do all 
sorts of dreadful things. 

What especially tortured him was the sorry 
figure he continued to cut in Mabel Meadows’ 
eyes. From the fateful day on which he had 
deliberately insulted her by refusing to ac- 
knowledge her acquaintance, she had quite 
properly ignored his existence. Moreover, 
of late she had become great friends with 
“Reddy.” Johnnie had licked Reddy and 
could do it again any day ; but in social mat- 
ters the tables were turned. Reddy, alias 
Jimmy Jenks, when he reached the age at 
which he ought to have been bashful, had be- 
come more forward and piggishly presumptu- 
ous than ever. 

Altogether the unfortunate state of affairs 
humiliated Johnnie to the verge of despera- 
tion. Jealousy toward one whom he had al- 
ways held in the utmost contempt was added 
to his pangs. 

In the course of time a party was an- 
136 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


nounced at Mabel’s, and Johnnie was invited. 
With a solemn oath he declared his intention 
to go. Not only would he attend the party, 
but he would take active part in the games, 
and be a man, so help him ! It had come to 
this. He must either do or die — or both. 
The eventful night was not slow in coming ; 
in fact, it came with a swiftness that was terri- 
fying. But Johnnie remained firm. Early 
in the evening he dressed and sallied forth. 

He approached the house stealthily from 
the rear with scarcely a tremor. He knew 
he would not go in, for it was hours too early 
yet. Seating himself on the fence he fondly 
watched the house, which held his beloved, 
fade away in the dusk. 

At length, lights began to shine at the 
windows and he heard voices in the yard. 
Growing panicky he slipped down and crept 
back into the woods. There a fierce battle 
was waged in his breast. Pride kept saying 
over and over ‘T will go in,” but as soon as 
he reached the fence again, timidity would 
make a sudden charge and say firmly ”I 
won’t go in.” 


137 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


After repeated routs, rallies and flank 
movements, however, pride won the day — 
or, rather, the night — and Johnnie found 
himself at the party. 

He marched in boldly and flung himself into 
the thick of the merriment, laughing and 
chattering until some were made to believe 
that he was having a good time. But, alas, 
it was only by sheer force of will that he as- 
sumed to be at ease, and the feeling grew 
upon him that he was talking stupidly, laugh- 
ing idiotically and acting the fool. 

The strain was too great, and in the midst 
of it all Johnnie broke down. The tide of 
bashfulness came surging back upon him, 
sweeping him off his feet. He dropped out 
of the game, murmured something about go- 
ing home and began peeping about under 
sofas and chairs in an aimless way until 
Mabel asked “Why, what is the matter, John?” 

“Oh, I was jist looking round, he re- 
plied carelessly. “I wonder where my hat 
is.” 

“It’s on the rack in the hall, isn’t it?” sug- 
gested Mabel. Then she ran and got it for 
138 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


him. “Must you really go?” she asked 
anxiously. 

Johnnie would not hurt her feelings for the 
world. “Oh, no; I guess I’ll wait a while 
yet,” he answered obligingly. “I just wanted 
my hat,” and he laughed vacantly. 

“’Fraid somebody’ d steal it?” suggested 
Reddy, elbowing by with a smirk; and John- 
nie was too shamed even to resent his rival’s 
insolence. 

For the rest of the evening he stood around 
engaged in clinging to his hat and blushing. 
He would have gone home — he would rather 
have gone home than to heaven — but one 
insurmountable obstacle lay in his way. 
Etiquette, that constant plague of bashful 
boyhood, required that he should thank his 
hostess for the pleasures of the evening be- 
fore departing; and this he could not do. 

So he lingered on, like the boy on the 
burning deck, and in much the same state of 
mind, until “all but him had flown.” 

As the others spoke their polite farewells, 
he had listened intently to each formula, and 
had decided that he would say ; 

139 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


“I assure you, Miss Mabel, I have had a 
delightful time.” Drawing himself up in line 
at last he began, “I have had an assuring 
time — I mean Pm delightful. Miss Mabel,” 
he stammered, gazing yearningly at the door- 
knob. 

“Thank you,” said Mabel, courteously. 

“Oh, not at all. Pm sure,” rejoined John- 
nie affably, grinding his teeth; then, “Well, 
I guess Pd better be goin’.’^ 

“Really?” smiled Mabel. 

“I think Pd better; it’s gittin’ late.” 

“Yes.” 

He had reached the door and, having ex- 
hausted all his powers of conversation, was 
staring awkwardly at the floor when he heard 
Reddy’s well-known voice at a window: 

“Aw, come off ! ” it exclaimed, derisively ; 
and with murder in his heart Johnnie rushed 
wildly out. 

This was all very amusing, or harrowing, 
according to the point of view. To the ma- 
licious Reddy it was funny; to Johnnie it was 
simply calamitous. Not being a natural fool 


140 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


he realized his folly, and indeed magnified 
it to terrible dimensions. 

All the way home in fancy he could hear 
Mabel and Reddy making merry together 
over his stupidity, till the very welkin rung 
with their mockful laugh. With every step 
he muttered an evil, “doggone it, doggone 
it.” There were no stars in the sky, no dew 
was on the grass — the world was an immense 
mass of darkness whirling through a universe 
of gloomy, gray mist; and life was the emp- 
tiest of idle dreams. 

Sadly he stole up to his bedchamber— his 
cheerless bedchamber, from which he had 
gone forth so full of hope, of vaunting pride 
and fond ambition a few brief hours before. 
Sadly he tumbled into bed, and with his last 
waking breath sighed soulfully again, “dog- 
gone it.” 

Johnnie resolved never to venture upon the 
social sea again. Never would he expose 
himself to the taunts of his inferiors and the 
ridicule of dear Mabel any more. Evidently 
nature had not fitted him to shine in compa- 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


ny. And what was the use of opposing na- 
ture’s unalterable plans? 

His lot was to be that of the recluse. So 
be it. He would retire meekly to the lonely 
depths of the forest and become a hermit, 
living sparsely and brokenheartedly upon nuts 
and herbs. Man he would shun and the face 
of woman never look upon again. The four- 
footed and feathered folk of the woods should 
be his only friends. 

He planned how he would build himself a 
nest in the top of a giant oak, where the winds 
would rock him to sleep, while the silent stars 
watched above him and the wretched world 
unwept sank out of sight. 

Day after day he would awaken ere the 
sun, and descending from his high abode, 
gather his scant supply of food with the 
squirrels, to scamper aloft again before slug- 
gard humanity stirred. 

If, at any time, his serenity should be dis- 
turbed by a human presence, if some girl — as 
Mabel, for instance — should chance to stray 
within the boundaries of his realm, how 
haughtily he would stare down at her through 
142 


THE BANE OF BASHFULNESS 


the foliage ! And if she should happen to lift 
her eyes and see him as he swung airily from 
bough to bough, if a look of anguished long- 
ing should overspread her face, if she should 
break forth in remorseful lamentations and beg 
him to come back, come back to her — well, 
his voice would tremble, maybe, and his eyes 
might grow misty ; but he would answer her 
calmly, tenderly but firmly, “It is too late, 
Mabel; alas, too late.” 

Johnnie, furthermore, decided as to how 
he would dispose of Reddy if he ever came 
across his path; and his foreordained treat- 
ment of that worthy, while less poetical, was 
fully as gratifying as his imaginary interview 
with Mabel. 


143 


XVI 

THE RALLY 

It was on a Saturday afternoon in October 
that Johnnie went into the woods in a half- 
fanciful search for his destined lone retreat. 
Whether under guidance of his dreaming con- 
sciousness, or directed by the unerring hand 
of fate, it happened that his steps led him to 
the very spot where he and Mabel had met 
some months before. 

He was not slow to recognize his surround- 
ings, and, wracked by contending emotions, 
he threw himself upon the ground to medi- 
tate. Reclining listlessly upon his elbow, he 
gazed about. Here was where the snake 
had been ; over there was where Mabel had 
stood. The same screen of hazel, through 
which he had peered, still enclosed the cher- 
ished nook. The same trees arched above, 
the same grass formed its carpet. 

144 





HERB WAS 
WHERE 
THE SNAKE 
HAD BEEN 

p. 144 


\ 






i 


i 

3 


I 


THE RALLY 


And yet nothing was the same after all. 
Already time’s most ruthless token, the yel- 
low blight of autumn, was becoming visible 
everywhere. Bleak winds came and went 
mournfully through the tree-tops filling the 
forest with the clatter of descending nuts and 
the flutter of falling leaves, and the grass 
was harsh and withered, retaining scarcely 
more of its former color than the flecks of 
sodden sky above. 

To Johnnie this universal fading of things 
seemed most fitting, and his own breast 
heaved with sighs with every moan of the for- 
est. He was, indeed, the very embodiment 
of the autumnal spirit. 

The morbid melancholy of boyhood is a 
painful thing. The height of sentimental 
spirituality, to which lovelorn youth often- 
times ascends, would be sublime, were it not 
so ridiculous. 

In the midst of his maunderings Johnnie 
became aware of a presence and starting up in 
confusion, whom should he behold but the 
fair Mabel, herself, standing with downcast 
eyes and folded hands before him ! 

10 145 


THE RALLY 


“Howd’y, John,” she said demurely step- 
ping forward. 

“Howd’y/’ gasped Johnnie with pallid 
face and averted eyes. 

“What you doing, hunting snakes?” asked 
Mabel, after waiting a moment for him to say 
something. 

“No’p,” responded Johnnie glumly, edg- 
ing away. Then a thought struck him. 
“Only red-headed ones,” he added with 
terse meaning. 

“What do you mean?” 

“You’re awful innocent.” 

“Honest, I don’t understand you.” 

“Who was you lookin’ fer, then,” accu- 
singly. 

“Me?” 

“Yes, you.” 

“I wasn’t looking for anybody particular, ” 
with blushes. 

“Whereabouts is Reddy?” and Johnnie 
faced her sternly. 

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” 

“Yes, you don’t,” very sarcastically. 


146 


THE RALLY 


“That red-headed thing!” with great dis- 
dain. 

“You like him, don’t you?” — this some- 
what softly. 

Mabel replied with a decisiveness which 
made Johnnie’s heart bound, “No, I don’t I” 

During the silence that followed Johnnie 
picked up a stick and began poking into the 
ground thoughtfully. 

“I hate him!” exclaimed Mabel vehe- 
mently. 

“So do I,” responded Johnnie, with feel- 
ing 

“Say,” began Mabel after another pause. 

“Say what?” 

“I’m not going to have a thing to do with 
him any more.” 

“I wouldn’t either,” said Johnnie sympa- 
thetically. 

Then Mabel drew shyly nearer, and John- 
nie stood his ground, though his brain was 
reeling. 

“I — I like you the best,” she whispered, 
glancing up at him. 

A visible thrill passed over Johnnie from 

147 


THE RALLY 


head to foot and he was stricken speechless. 
He wanted to answer her fittingly, he wanted 
to caress her, he wanted to turn a glad flip- 
flop on the grass; but he could only stand 
there and poke the stick furiously into the 
ground. 

“This is the same place where we first 
met,” began Mabel again presently. “I 
have thought of it so often. — You can’t guess 
how I happened to come here to-day, John.” 
She paused. 

“No’p,” said he. 

“I saw you and followed you.” 

Johnnie’s brain reeled again. Was this a 
deceitful dream? 

Was he sleeping and would he presently 
awake? Was the wind still sobbing, and 
were the dead leaves falling? No, surely it 
was summer time again. 

“I’m glad,” he murmured dreamily at 
length, speaking the truth that was upper- 
most in his heart. 

Mabel looked up and laughed; then a 
shade of vexation came into her face. “But 


148 


THE RALLY 


why do you snub me at school, John?’' she 
asked earnestly. 

Because — Oh, jist because,” said he in 
confusion again. 

“Do you like me?” 

“Yes — awful,” then, drawing himself to- 
gether with sudden force, “Fm ’fraid of the 
teacher.” 

The conversation became less personal at 
length, but to Johnnie no less interesting. 
Nothing she could say lacked interest. 

Finally the lateness of the afternoon forced 
them to part. 

“Don’t you ever tell about this,” warned 
Johnnie, as he started away, and again when 
he had gone a little distance he stopped, and 
turning round repeated, “Don’t you ever 
tell!” 

And the joyous little bird-voice echoed 
back sweetly, “I won’t, John,” and tenderly 
“Good-bye I ” 

When Johnnie reached home that evening 
he seemed so profoundly happy that his 
mother cross-examined him closely, fearing 
he had been into mischief. He became sus- 
149 


THE RALLY 


piciously embarrassed, too, under her ques- 
tions ; but all she could get out of him was 
that he had been in the woods. 

The fiercest inquisition of old could never 
have extorted from Johnnie the secret of his 
tryst with Mabel. 

Swiftly and happily Johnnie relinquished 
his dreams of a lodge in the wilderness. 
There was a new and notable manliness in his 
bearing and a proud gleam in his eye when 
he appeared at school Monday morning. 

The knowledge that Mabel liked him — 
cared for him (he could not quite bring him- 
self to use the word love) had wrought a rev- 
olution in his every relationship. Although 
by no means blind to his blunders and awk- 
wardness, the fact that such a critic as Mabel 
did not deem him altogether stupid reassured 
him, and self-assurance was what he most 
needed. 

At recess a game of ‘‘weevily wheat’’ was 
begun under the locusts in the school-yard. 
With his accustomed freshness Reddy saun- 
tered up to Mabel, and taking her familiarly 
by the arm, boldly declared that she should 

150 


THE RALLY 


be his partner. But Mabel shook him off 
haughtily, and a moment later was tripping 
through the mazes of the game (which was 
really a sort of quadrille, although the chil- 
dren did not know it) as Johnnie Winkle’s 
chosen mate. 

Reddy went and leaned against a tree and 
made taunting comments upon them. “Ain’t 
he a dandy?” and “See the periwinkle!” 
and “Keep off her feet, won’t ye?” he cried 
spitefully. When the “set” was concluded 
Johnnie stepped aside and beckoned Reddy 
to follow. Reddy acquiesced with an easy 
air, destined soon to vanish. 

The back fence was reached, and Johnnie 
took his whilom rival by the ear. “See here, 
Reddy,” he began impressively, “I got a no- 
tion to wallup the daylights out o’ you.” 

Reddy squirmed and his florid face grew 
as pale as it could. “You’re a doggoned 
little pup an’ you got to let Mabel alone. 
D’ye understand?” Johnnie went on, plac- 
ing a fist beneath Reddy’s nose. 

‘ ‘Why, I don’t want to bother her, ’ ’ quaked 


THE RALLY 


Reddy. “I don’t keer nothin’ about her — if 
she’ll let me be. She ain’t — ” 

“Shut up!” commanded Johnnie sharply, 
“Don’t you dare say nothin’ about her.” 

“Why, course I won’t. Say, John,” and 
Reddy became effusively confidential, “I 
bet you can’t guess what she said about you . ’ ’ 
And before Johnnie could interrupt him, “She 
said she thought you was the nicest boy in 
this school — honest, she did, an’ I kin prove 
it.” 

This information had the desired effect of 
appeasing the avenger’s wrath SQmewhat, 
and when the bell rang the unpleasant affair 
had been amicably settled. 

Thenceforth, Johnnie and Mabel became 
acknowledged and hona fide school-sweet- 
hearts. Their .passion was largely of the 
passive, pensive sort, evincing itself not so 
much in language as in smiles, and sighs, 
and longing, in exaltation, and melancholia, 
and anorexia. 

In truth, their love was of the kind which 
certain old people, who have never been 
voung, are wont to style “puppy-love,” — 
152 


THE RALLY 


the kind which, to one who perceives the 
heart of things, is the purest, most divine 
and, not seldom, the most enduring form of 
affection. 

To Johnnie’s innocent imagination Mabel 
was simply a hallowed angel, while in her 
eyes he assumed the aspect of a hero, capa- 
ble of all things, noble and good. 

Nor is it likely that their estimates of each 
other in the abstract ever came nearer the 
truth ; for, just as they were then, in all their 
childish innocence and ignorance, their youth- 
ful delicacy and maidenly reserve, were they 
not happier and better and wiser than most 
of their supercilious elders, or than they, 
themselves, might ever be again? 


153 


XVII 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 

The first light snow of the season had fal- 
len, and Johnnie was searching for the ax 
preparatory to going rabbit hunting, when he 
noticed his father and Mr. Meadows convers- 
ing earnestly together in the orchard lot, back 
of the barn. 

Mr. Meadows was a highly interesting man 
to Johnnie, and, although he always felt 
rather ill at ease in so august a presence, he 
decided he would like to hear what was being 
said. 

So, strolling carelessly into their vicinity, 
he stopped at a peach tree and began to pick 
the withered buds to pieces with great pains, 
under pretense of ascertaining whether they 
had been winter-killed. 

*‘Yes, it is a poor time to move,” Mr. 
Meadows was saying, “but you see it’s a 

154 


\ I 



j! ■ 


WHERE 
HE COULD 
NURSE 
HIS MISERY 

p. 155 







I 



A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


chance I can’t let slip. I make a clean thou- 
sand to start with, an’ fair prospects for 
more.” 

“When do you ’low to go?” asked Mr. 
Winkle. 

“Three weeks from Tuesday, if nothin’ 
happens.” 

Then they walked off and presently Mr. 
Meadows went home. 

Johnnie crept away. He had heard enough 
— more than enough. All the time he had 
felt that something was going to happen ; and 
this was it. Mabel was going away. Going 
away and he would never see her again. 

What a sad, sodden, snow-bound world it 
was ! He went and climbed into the hay- 
mow, where he could nurse his misery undis- 
turbed. 

“Well, what on airth air ye doin’ here, 
sonny,” cried Eph in amazement when he 
came at noon to feed the horses. “We all 
thought ye wuz out chasin’ cotton-tails.” 

“No’p,” said Johnnie dolefully, “I ain’t 
feelin’ well, Eph.” 

“Well, Lord, why don’t ye goto the house 

155 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


then. Ye’ll ketch yer death out here,” and 
amid a tirade of reproof Johnnie slunk out. 

At dinner his lack of appetite confirmed 
the assertion that he was unwell. But he re- 
mained at the table throughout the meal and, 
after repeated attempts, finally succeeded in 
leading his father to discuss the topic upper- 
most in his mind and deepest in his heart. 

“Meadowses ’re goin’ to move away,” 
said Mr. Winkle across the table to his wife, 
and he proceeded to explain the whys and 
wherefores of the case, whilst Johnnie unwit- 
tingly gulped down great crusts of bread. 

The next day, which was Sunday, was 
very long and lonesome. As evening drew 
on Johnnie became uncontrollably restless and 
finally stole upstairs and put on his best suit 
of clothes. 

Ere long he might have been seen speed- 
ing across lots, like a shadow in the dusk, to- 
ward the Meadows place. He was going to 
pay Mabel a call. All the way he wondered 
at himself and could hardly believe it. He 
would almost have wagered that he was only 
shamming and would not actually go up and 
156 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


knock at the door when he got there. But, 
even while turning the matter over in his 
mind, he had reached the gate, had stepped 
boldly onto the porch and was rapping upon 
the door with a vicious little rat-terrier snap- 
ping at his heels. 

Presently a tall, matronly woman, with 
huge spectacles, opened the door and peered 
over his head out into the night. Then her 
glance chanced to fall upon him. “Why, 
bless me, it’s a little boy!” she exclaimed in 
astonishment. 

“Good-night, ma’am,” said Johnnie, re- 
moving his hat. 

The woman stared at him. “Whose little 
boy are you?” she asked at length. 

“I’m Jawn Winkle,” responded Johnnie in 
as deep a bass as he could summon. 

“Oh, — Sam Winkle’s little boy, eh? Is 
some one sick?” Johnnie replied in the neg- 
ative and was finally invited in. 

Ah, what a little, little boy he felt himself 
to be ! He had left home with a feeling of 
manliness, rejoicing in his strength, but now, 
as he placed himself precariously on the edge 

157 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


of an upholstered chair, he realized how vain- 
ly he had vaunted . 

Wistfully he looked about. Mabel was no- 
where in sight. “My little boy, Willie, has 
gone to bed,” observed Mrs. Meadows apol- 
ogetically. “Fll see if he is asleep,” and 
she withdrew. 

Her little boy, Willie ! A wholly uninter- 
esting infant, a mere babe of nine — what did 
Johnnie care for him? 

“Willie is fast asleep,” said his motherly 
hostess when she came back, “but here are 
some of his picture-books. Perhaps you’d 
like to look at them,” and she deposited a 
gaudy collection of juvenile literature in his 
lap. 

To call him a little boy and then to bring 
him picture-books — this was indeed adding 
insult to injury. But she was Mabel’s moth- 
er and Johnnie dared not reveal his disgust. 

Patiently he turned the pages of the child’s 
books, pausing now and then as though par- 
ticularly pleased with certain passages, to 
con the coarse print three-letter words that 


158 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


told of Hal and his pet cat, or Ma-ry and her 
pret-ty doll. 

In the meantime Mrs. Meadows sat near by 
reading a newspaper and looking up occa- 
sionally to see how her small guest enjoyed 
himself. 

For a long while Johnnie perused the books 
industriously in the hope that somehow Ma- 
bel would appear soon. But when the clock 
struck eight and every variegated volume had 
been exhausted, he grew despondent. 

He rose to his feet. “Fll have to be go- 
ing,” he said dejectedly. As he reached the 
door he asked abruptly “How many children 
have you got, Mrs. Meadows?” 

“Just two — Willie and Mabel,” she an- 
swered pleasantly. “You haven’t any little 
brothers or sisters, have you?” 

“No’m.” 

“Poor child! I suppose you get dread- 
fully lonesome. You ought to come over 
and play with Willie real often ; but we’re go- 
ing to move away soon.” 

At this juncture an inner door opened and 
Mabel appeared, sleepy-eyed and yawning, 

159 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


with a copy of Ivanhoe in her hand. Why, 
John Winkle!” she cried in surprise, “What’s 
the matter?” 

Johnnie tried to inform her that nothing 
was the matter. “I’ve jist been visitin’ your 
maw,” he explained, smiling helplessly. 

He was already on the porch. He had 
started home, and could not well turn back 
now. Cordial good-nights were spoken all 
around and he took his departure. But he 
lingered at the gate long enough to hear Ma- 
bel asking her mother in vexation, “Why 
didn’t you tell me he was here?” She had 
been upstairs calmly reading all evening ! 

Mabel was not at school the next morning, 
nor the next, nor any morning thereafter. 
Her father came one day and got her books, 
saying that, as they were going away in a 
short time, it was not considered worth while 
for Mabel to attend school during the interval. 

With her books went the last little ray of 
sunshine. Dismal, indeed, were the long days 
after that. Johnnie occupied the time with 
various vain subterfuges. He wrote endear- 
ing letters to her which he carried about and 
i6o 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


then finally destroyed. He found a pencil in 
her deserted desk, overlooked by her father, 
and wore it near his heart. He composed 
little odes and sonnets of which she was the 
central thought, and in which occurred such 
rhymes as “fair” and “golden hair,” “eyes” 
and “skies,” “love,” “dove” and “above,” 
— rhymes which have been utilized over and 
over by languishing lovers since poetry and 
love were first invented. 

He went to the woods in the cheerless 
weather and seeking out their olden trysting- 
place, carved her initials and his own on the 
trunk ^of an ice-bound tree that faithfully 
guarded the hallowed spot. 

He loitered sometimes in the vicinity of 
Mabel’s home, but he did not venture in any 
more. 

Early one morning, while the dawn was 
yet dim upon the snowy fields, Johnnie was 
awakened by the rumble of heavy wagons, 
passing along the road. Instinctively He ran 
to the window and peeped out. The Mead- 
ows were moving! Four wagons, heaped 
with household goods, upon the foremost of 
II i6i 


A SORROWFUL DENOUEMENT 


which rode Mr. Meadows, told the tragic 
tale. 

With a sinking heart Johnnie watched 
them pass. No funeral procession had ever 
impressed him as did this. 

Upon the last wagon, wrapped in comforts 
and shawls, sat Mabel, his beloved. She 
gave no sign of recognition — she did not even 
look in Johnnie’s direction. Once, indeed, 
he thought she turned her head slightly, but 
that was all. 

Slowly the shadows enfolded her form — 
slowly, as divine visions ever fade, she passed 
from sight; and sadly, as all music d#s, the 
rumble of the heavy wagons ceased. 


XVIII 


A BOOK WORM 

The boy is a mercurial being. Paediatrists 
tell us that the slightest systemic disturbance 
is apt to throw a child into fever, while a dis- 
order, which would produce a mere chill in 
an adult, is sufficient to cause infantile con- 
vulsions. 

On the other hand, the child is remarkably 
responsive to remedial measures, and the cause 
being removed, reacts from the gravest illness 
promptly and completely. Anatomically the 
boy’s bones and sinews possess more fibrous 
tissue and less calcium than the man’s. And 
his temperament, like his bones, is much 
more supple and elastic. 

The troubles of childhood, although in- 
tense, are fleet, as is childhood itself. A 
disappointment that would crush hope out of 

163 


A BOOK WORM 


a man’s life forever, oppresses the boy for 
about a month. 

Johnnie was profoundly overcome by Ma- 
bel’s departure for the space of several weeks. 
During this unhappy period he sought con- 
solation in various futile ways. On Saturday 
mornings, after chores, he would shoulder 
the musket — for he had become old enough 
to bear arms now — and go hunting ; but his 
path always led to one certain sylvan retreat, 
and he came home downcast and empty- 
handed. 

Then he would chop stove-wood diligently 
all the afternoon, striving to drown grief in 
the dissipation of work, but in vain. 

At school he would play wildly one day, 
quarrel and fight the next and mope moodily 
apart on the day after. 

But one great solace gradually came to 
chasten his sorrow. As often happens it was 
the very alternative which at first seemed to 
promise the least. In aimlessness he began 
to investigate the dust-embalmed books in 
his father’s meager library. 

It was a heterogeneous collection, com- 
164 


I 


I 



OLD 

ENOUGH 
TO BEAR 
ARMS NOW 

p- 164 














A BOOK WORM 


prising the History of the Reformation, 
Flavius Josephus, The Family Doctor and 
Saints’ Rest, among its heavier works. In 
somewhat lighter vein were Oliver Twist, two 
autograph albums, Waverley, the Language 
of Flowers, Agricultural Reports and an Atlas 
of the World. Furthermore, in a corner to 
themselves Johnnie found his own forgotten 
prize-copy of Paradise Lost and a much 
traveled Pilgrim’s Progress. 

In any other mood Johnnie would have 
scorned these musty, old-fogyish volumes as 
mere empty rubbish, belonging altogether 
beyond the pale of his existence. But their 
very forlornness appealed to him now, and 
the ancient '‘odor of sanctity,” which they 
literally exhaled, seemed to sooth and tran- 
quillize his soul. 

They were, indeed, spiritualized books 
from which all carnal attributes had faded 
generations before ; and Johnnie felt himself 
strangely akin to them. 

This impression arose solely from their 
outward appearance. As to their contents, 
he had read twenty pages of the “Reformation’ ’ 

165 


A BOOK WORM 


before he was even vaguely conscious of their 
import ; and he continued to read more for the 
sake of turning the yellow leaves and smell- 
ing their inspiring odor there in the restful 
quiet of the parlor than for any interest the 
history bore. 

In like manner he loitered through Flavius 
Josephus and the Family Doctor. But when 
he had perused the first chapter of Oliver 
Twist his lethargy vanished. Like an Egypt- 
ologist who, delving day after day amid the 
very attenuation of mummified death, comes 
suddenly face to face with some quaintly 
familiar phase of life, Johnnie discovered the 
grotesquely vivid characters of Dickens. He 
read the book through twice before he could 
put it aside. 

Thereafter Johnnie became a discriminating 
reader. He lingered somewhat over the 
many-tinted but time-stained leaves of the 
autograph albums, dainty for-get-me-nots of 
his parents’ youths, with their mellow verses 
in almost invisible chirography praying re- 
membrance and signed by hands long folded 
across throbless breasts, — he lingered over 
1 66 


W,'v' ^ r% 


A BOOK WORM 

these, with wonder at the strain jof pathos 
which they betokened, so like tKati> his own 
life, and which he had not,, believed existed 
in the “good old times. But much more 
burning was his interest in Scott’s glowing 
romance, so replete with stirring life and love 
and all the bright ideals, toward which a 
boy’s heart yearns. 

To Johnnie, Waverley was intensely realis- 
tic, for he had not yet descended in spirit to 
the low level of ordinary existence, where the 
expected happens and the rain falls monoto- 
nously on the just and the unjust. 

Waverley was grand, and ere he had fin- 
ished it his entire mental attitude and the at- 
mosphere about him had changed again. 
Depression had been displaced by a lofty 
buoyant longing for great adventure. His 
imaginary world had become a vast battle 
ground of mighty heroes with countless lovely 
maidens looking on and crowning the victors 
with laurel wreaths of love . 

His heart swelled to be up and doing; and 
his dreams grew more extravagant than they 
had ever been before. 

167 


A BOOK WORM 


Nor were his aspirations satisfied with 
make-believes as they had been in the past. 
He tried to pretend that old Fan was a pranc- 
ing palfrey, as she ambled across the pasture 
with him, that his clothes were glittering 
armor and his hat a helmet; but fancy was 
not equal to it. He charged upon the cows 
as adversaries with a mullein-stalk lance ; but 
they only eyed him reproachfully and switched 
their tails. 

Discouraged by the perverseness of things, 
Johnnie returned to the library again. Saints’ 
Rest aroused little enthusiasm, and he was 
somewhat wary of Pilgrim’s Progress. 

But when he stripped the latter of its alle- 
gorical tendencies and learned to omit the 
dissertations between Christian and his garru- 
lous companions, he found it very good read- 
ing. 

The Slough of Despond was to him a miry 
marsh, like that in his father^s meadow; 
Doubting Castle was a huge, jail-like edifice ; 
and the Valley of the Shadow of Death was a 
deep, gloomy gorge. Great Heart was a 
real, flesh-and-blood man, whose lineaments 
1 68 


A BOOK WORM 


fancy graphically traced, and the giant, De- 
spair, was a counterpart of Goliath. The fiery 
battle with Apollyon was a vivid and war-like 
engagement, surpassing any Scott had de- 
picted. 

Johnnie was at just the right age to get the 
meat out of Pilgrim’s Progress. 

But, at length, the family library grew ex- 
hausted. Every volume had been reviewed, 
even to the atlas. With an unquenchable 
thirst for more fiction, Johnnie consulted 
Cousin Henry. Cousin Henry, he knew, 
was an inveterate reader of stories. 

“Yes,” said Henry kindly, “Til lend you 
something to read,” and going to the barn 
he brought forth a bundle of thumb-marked 
papers from a secret niche. 

“But don’t you show them to your folks,” 
Henry admonished, as he handed them over. 
“Keep them hid somewhere.” 

With a somewhat guilty feeling Johnnie 
bore the papers home and, stealing into his 
father’s barn, stored them away in the loft. 
Here, he thought, was food that would be 
filling at any rate. 


A BOOK WORM 


Sunday afternoon he began their secret 
perusal. They were story papers with a 
vengeance. “The Human Sleuth!” was the 
scare-head title of the first tale Johnnie’s eyes 
fell upon ; and he was soon following the fa- 
mous detective with bated breath through ad- 
ventures before which those of Christian paled. 

It was the kind of literature which at some 
time falls into the hands of every youth, and 
turns the heads of so many; the bloody, mi- 
crobe-infested kind, produced by anaemic, 
narrow-chested individuals, coughing them- 
selves to death in city garrets. 

For several weeks Johnnie breathed this 
infected air, cuddled up in the hay-mow, in 
close seclusion. 

But one day Eph ascended to his retreat 
unawares and, with his usual sensible instinct, 
took in the situation at a glance. 

“Hold on there, sonny,” he said, going di- 
rectly to the point. “Ye’d better be out 
playin’ cyards, er stealin’ hogs, er plottin’ to 
kill yore gran’ mammy than readin’ that there 
truck; it’ll land ye in jail, shore. I’ve been 


170 


A BOOK WORM 


there — I mean I’ve been where you air; an’ 
I come purty dost to the jail, too.” 

With admonitions and precepts too tedious 
to relate, Eph plied Johnnie for an hour. 

Next day the story papers were returned to 
their owner. Eph congratulated himself on 
the good deed he had done, in thus persuad- 
ing Johnnie to abandon the pernicious stuff; 
but in truth, the fierce Human Sleuth was al- 
ready growing repugnant. The boy who has 
tasted Dickens and Scott — not to mention the 
History of the Reformation — is apt soon to 
tire of so insipid a mental diet. 


171 


XIX 


THE BOY INVENTOR 

During that intensely adolescent stage, be- 
tween twelve and fifteen, the boy is a many- 
sided individual. In pursuing the tangled 
thread of sentiment through this mazy period 
it must not be assumed that Johnnie was 
given altogether to idle dreams of love. It 
would be vain to attempt to touch upon all 
the phases he exhibited. Their number was 
legion, their manifestations countless. 

One of his most persistent characteristics 
was a faculty for inventing. This amounted 
almost to genius ; indeed his parents were in- 
clined to consider it positively phenomenal. 

At the tender age of nine he tore a clock 
to pieces and put it together again so that it 
would run with amazing speed. His moth- 
er’s sewing machine was thoroughly over- 
hauled by him when he was ten, and at the 
172 


THE BOY INVENTOR 


age of twelve he attempted to make a steam 
thresher out of an old washing machine. All 
one summer he labored at odd times trying 
to transform a tin can into a locomotive. 

He whittled a whirligig out of a shingle, 
whose mechanism made a wooden bird bob 
up and down, and the toy wagons, sets of 
dog harness, chicken coops and martin boxes 
he constructed were innumerable. 

Some of Johnnie’s devices were carefully 
planned in advance, but often he depended 
wholly on inspiration, simply taking saw and 
hammer and going to work, letting the plans 
develop as he proceeded. Frequently he had 
no idea what his invention would prove to be 
until it was finished. 

Once he arranged a sort of tread-mill in 
the bottom of a box, and discovered after- 
wards, by accident, that it was excellent for 
“breaking up setting hens,” keeping them in 
such constant motion that they soon lost all 
tendency to “set.” 

But his talents were evinced more plainly 
in the conception of novel contrivances than 
in their execution. In inventive matters John- 
173 


THE BOY INVENTOR 


nie hitched his wagon boldly to a star. No 
sort of mechanical marvel seemed to lie be- 
yond the bounds of his imagination. Flying 
machines, horseless carriages, perpetual mo- 
tion — all were within the grasp of his mind. 

There are lazy, easy-going people of ability 
who can accomplish things of which they 
never dream, and there are energetic people 
who dream of things they can never accom- 
plish. Both classes are apt to be looked upon 
as geniuses in their way, but it is only the 
latter that deserves the name. Genius con- 
ceives great things ; it is only plodding Pa- 
tience who carries them out. 

Johnnie was not content with the mere 
planning of details. When he had conceived 
the general idea of an airship, his fancy im- 
mediately mounted it and soared away on its 
tireless wings. Lying on his back out in the 
orchard he would look into the sky until he 
could almost see himself, a tiny speck, drift- 
ing gently hither and thither among the 
clouds. 

Yet he did not overlook the importance of 
less pretentious contrivances, and many were 

174 


THE BOY INVENTOR 


the homely little conveniences he planned. 
An automatic ax for chopping stove wood, 
to be operated by turning a crank, was one of 
them. This was to be connected with a pat- 
ent wood-carrier in the form of an endless 
belt, leading from the wood-yard into the 
kitchen. 

Another was a mechanical milker. It was 
to be constructed after the manner of a force 
pump, with a rubber hose extending from 
stable to cellar. All that would be necessary 
in order to perform the irksome operation of 
milking would be to attach one end of the 
tube to the cow and work the pump-handle. 
This idea was improved upon from time to 
time until it became a wonder of ingenuity. 
The cows might be trained so that they would 
take their places at the proper time, and a 
spring might be arranged to clasp the tube to 
the udders automatically. The power for 
operating the pump might readily be supplied 
by a windmill. 

Moreover, Johnnie devised a horse-feeder 
and self-acting groom, which was to be a 
great labor-saver. To do this part of the 

175 


THE BOY INVENTOR 


chores one would have only to pull a string 
when the right quantity of hay and oats would 
fall into the manger with a click, while huge 
curry-combs, protruding from each side of the 
stall and impelled by clockwork, would begin 
to smooth the horse’s main and tail with 
lightning strokes. 

Closely akin to Johnnie’s inventive talent 
was an inborn fondness for experiments. 
These, like his mechanical constructions, were 
often carried on in utter aimlessness. He 
seemed to have a passion for dissevering and 
assembling things. 

In infancy this tendency was rudimentally 
apparent in the destruction of rag dolls and 
the putting together of dust and water in the 
form of mud pies. As he grew older it as- 
sumed more definite and even dangerous 
forms. 

One phenomenon which he never tired of 
investigating was the explosive nature of gun- 
powder, and he had several narrow escapes 
while studying this. Earth, air, fire and 
water were all subjects of great interest, and 


176 


THE BOY INVENTOR 


his experiments with them varied in danger, 
according to their possibilities. 

By repeated trials he found just the degree 
of thinness at which ice would break beneath 
his weight and let him into the creek. He 
demonstrated by actual experiment how near 
to the edge of the bank he could walk with- 
out falling, and discovered the exact point at 
which he fell. He tested the comparative 
strength and resistance of various branches of 
an apple tree in relation to his weight, and 
learned which ones broke with him. 

He found from how great a height he could 
jump without hurting himself, how high he 
could climb in a sapling before he lost his 
balance, and just how a boy felt with his 
breath knocked out. 

Johnnie acquired a great deal of experience 
incidental to his investigation of things. For 
instance, while studying the labyrinthine struc- 
ture of a hornet’s nest he conceived the bitter 
pang of the insect’s sting, and while observ- 
ing the curious claws of a craw-fish he felt 
their sharpness. 

Such incidents are a part of every boy’s 

12 177 


THE BOY INVENTOR 


natural education, and the city-bred youth 
who misses them misses some of the great 
underlying principles of life. 

The habits of making things and trying 
things are much more than a mere waste of 
time or a preventive of mischief. The boy 
who drives a nail into a board learns to hit 
it upon the head. He becomes agile by 
climbing trees and cautious by falling from 
them. 

Some boy’s grandmother once said, ‘*A 
burnt child dreads the fire,” and never has 
anything relating to childhood been more 
sagely spoken. 

From numberless native sources Johnnie 
drew that wisdom, positive and negative, 
which goes to make up the sum total of 
“common sense,” and the things he learned 
not to do were as useful and necessary as the 
things he learned to do. 


178 



• • WITH HIS 
BREATH 

knocked out 

P. 177 





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XX 

WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 

The darkest shadow that ever lies across 
the path of boyhood is threatening Johnnie. 
That almost inconceivable, yet inexorable 
calamity which he has dreaded ever since 
earth’s dearest idols ceased to be immortal, is 
drawing near. From his earliest remem- 
brance there have come to him occasional 
shadowy, pensive moments, strange, reflex 
tides of emotion, when he would pause in his 
play and sigh in half conscious recognition of 
a presentiment of this ordeal. 

Even to the verge of tears he has some- 
times grieved in its anticipation; but he 
knows now that he has never truly realized it, 
that his fancy has never been able for an 
instant to grasp its overwhelming import. 

His mother is going to die. For weeks he 
has been hoping and praying, fearing and 
179 


WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 


weeping; but there is no longer any hope 
left, no longer any efficacy in prayer — noth- 
ing but tears remaining to him. It is a plain, 
pitiless fact, a condition as inevitable, as un- 
controllable, as the setting of the sun. 

His own mother — that mother who has al- 
ways been a part of his life, who gave him 
life and with whom every circumstance of 
life, as he traces it backward and outward, is 
inseparably joined, she is going to be swept 
out of existence. He wonders what the 
world will be like after — after — but he can 
not conceive. It is all black and incompre- 
hensible. 

Day after day she lies patiently in the little 
bedroom, the shadow- and memory-filled 
bedroom, which has always been such a de- 
lightful place, which, henceforth, will be such 
a holy place — wracked with pain, worn with 
weariness, but never complaining. 

Oh, she is a saint already, he thinks, as he 
tiptoes out of the room; there is so little 
corruptible to become incorruptible there, 
surely the kingdom of heaven, which she is so 


l8o 


WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 


soon to enter, will make little change in her. 
Is she not — has she not ever been sanctified? 

He steals away to his one boyish place of 
refuge, the barn, to meditate. Vainly he 
tries to picture to himself the glories of that 
strange, far-off country beyond the skies to 
which she is going. Those pearly gates and 
streets of gold, in which he believes so liter- 
ally, — will his mother care so very much for 

them, he wonders. 

She has never seemed fond of lavish dis- 
play here. Only one plain gold ring and a 
cameo brooch — but she could not afford much 
jewelry. And she will be rich and always 
happy there, perfectly happy forever. 

But a perplexing thought arises. She loves 
him — once, when she went away for a fort- 
night’s visit, she cried ; and she cried again 
when she came home, as she told him how 
lonely and homesick she had been. She 
loves him, loves his father, loves home; how, 

then, can she be perfectly happy up there, so 
far away? Only by forgetting, he reasons, 
and surely, surely she can never quite do that. 

Some one is calling him. Oh, perhaps she 
i8i 


WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 


is dying now, and he rushes wildly to the 
house. But it is only the minister, not the 
angel of death, who has come ; and he is go- 
ing to pray with them. 

Johnnie goes in with downcast eyes. There 
is a funereal air everywhere. Each face is 
averted and tearful, except the minister’s and 
hers. The preacher’s pious countenance is 
tranquil and there is a radiant, restful glory 
in the mother’s waxen features, such as he 
has never seen before, and she smiles like a 
glad bride. 

She beckons Johnnie to her and, as the 
minister kneels beside them, her feeble arms 
clasp him close against her bosom. Many a 
time in his tempestuous little life he has cried ; 
but he has never wept such a convulsive, 
heart-broken flood of anguish before, and 
never will again. Every pathetic word of the 
prayer sinks straight into his soul and makes 
him shudder with grief, with dread, with re- 
belliousness. 

But she is calm and the gentle stroke of her 
hand upon his hair soothes him at length and 
imparts a touch of that sublime peace of hers, 
182 


WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 


“which passeth understanding” ; and he goes 
out more nearly reconciled than ever before. 

Death always comes suddenly, no matter 
how long expected, or how breathlessly 
awaited. Johnnie’s mother passed away, at 
last, with a swiftness that was paralyzing. 
But Providence has set a limitation to human 
sorrow, and Johnnie had reached this in an- 
ticipation ; and now everything took place, 
as in a familiar, oft-repeated dream. 

Like an unreal rehearsal the funeral cere- 
mony proceeded. He knew just how the 
minister would look and what he would say ; 
how, at the close, strangers would gather 
about the bier and the merest friends would 
wipe their eyes and moan ; he knew how the 
white-gloved, black-frocked pall-bearers would 
creep softly in to carry the varnished casket 
away; how the sleek hearse horses would 
prance and shake their heads; and how the 
carriages would creak, creak on their slow 
march to the cemetery. But the desolate 
home-coming — he had not imagined that. 

When they arrived home Johnnie slipped 
away to the woods. Well-meaning neigh- 

183 


WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 


bors had tried to brighten things about the 
house, as if in the hope of making him forget 
his loss, and this grated on him. 

But nature was in the same mood as he. 
A drizzling, all-pervading rain was falling — 
dripping from leaf to leaf through the autumn 
foliage in sad monotones. There was no liv- 
ing thing in sight, no sound of life to be heard. 

Despair seemed traced on every lineament 
of the forest, and desolation hovered in the air. 
He had never seen such weather before, and 
he wondered if the sun would ever have the 
heart to shine again. 

At night, after the rest of the household 
slept, he crept out again. A harsh wind had 
risen, before which the clouds had vanished, 
leaving the sky infinite and clear. Unmind- 
ful of the chill blast, he sat down on the door- 
step and, resting his chin between his hands, 
fixed his eyes upon the heavens. 

Under such conditions, the stars shed an 
indescribably desolate influence earthward. 
The very spirit of their stillness and solitude 
seems to descend, until the whole shadowy 



HE SAT DOWN 
ON THE 
DOOR STEP 

p- 184 


WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 


universe is filled with a loneliness, incompara- 
bly vast and oppressive. 

How coldly, how pitilessly, those stellar 
eyes stared down at the poor waif of a boy, 
through the immeasurable, bleak, barren 
spaces of the night. They were all millions 
of miles away; and yet, he reflected, his 
mother must now be still beyond them. And 
only last night she was here, at home. What 
a terrible, inconceivable separation. 

And yet, as he brooded, he felt that this 
could not be. God was in heaven, yet He 
was everywhere. Perhaps, she was also; and, 
as he continued to meditate, a sense of her 
immediate presence came over him — a sense 
which abided in his heart to cheer and, some- 
times, to chide him through many years. 

Whatever he should do now — whatever he 
had done, even the little things of which he 
had been ashamed to tell her, she would 
know. Her invisible shade would follow 
him through life, rejoicing in his achieve- 
ments, sorrowing in his failures, watching 
over him faithfully all the while. 

Perhaps, this childish conceit of Johnnie’s 

185 


WHEN HIS MOTHER DIED 


was not orthodox. Perhaps, it was unscript- 
ural and inconsistent ; yet it was a blessing to 
the motherless boy and, perhaps, after all, 

“ Human hopes and human creeds 
Find their root in human needs.” 


XXI 


THE fledgling's FLIGHT 

The smoky arms of the distant city had 
never ceased to beckon to Johnnie. Some- 
times for months together he had forgotten 
it, and sometimes, knowing he could not 
obey its summons, he had refused to look in 
its direction; but, whenever he turned his 
eyes toward the eastern horizon, the vapory 
signal was always there. 

Neither had his olden resolve to go to the 
city some day and become a part of its life 
ever died entirely away; and now, with the 
loosening of home ties, with the chastening 
of his thoughts by sorrow and the slower, 
steadier beating of his heart, this intention 
became firmer and more active. 

It was not altogether that mystic centripe- 
tal attraction, which every city exerts upon 
every boy that drew him, nor was he influ- 
x87 


THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


enced merely by a weariness of rural quiet 
and a roving desire for change. These were 
considerations to be true, but beyond them 
was a growing conviction that the city offered 
better advantages, greater returns for labor, 
than the country. 

Well-fed students of economics are in the 
habit of decrying the townward tendency of 
country boys. Urban editors of agricultural 
journals are constantly advising them to stay 
on the farm, pointing to the illustrious men 
of our history who started as farmers. But 
Johnnie and his father and Eph, discussing 
the matter in their simplicity around the 
homely hearth, arrived at an adverse decis- 
ion. And their observations evinced a cer- 
tain quaint logic. 

They looked at the subject with the nar- 
row view of the individual struggling for sel- 
fish ends. In many generations of the Winkle 
family the “farmer’s boasted independence” 
had been taught by father to son, until it 
had come to be regarded as a sacred tenet, 
to question which were profane. 

Yet, as the matter of Johnnie’s future 

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THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


career was discussed night after night, one 
or another of them brought forward facts 
which seemed to weaken the time-honored 
phrase’s force. 

The fertility of the old farm was slowly be- 
ing carried to the city year by year, while a 
lugubrious mortgage, like a vulture hovered 
above it on tireless wings. At some distant 
day the farm would be worn to a mere skele- 
ton, and the hungry bird would descend and 
pick its bones. 

The farmer, while never out of work, went 
oftentimes unpaid. He was dependent first, 
upon the weather for a crop ; upon the uncer- 
tain law of supply and demand, together 
with “them tricky board o’ trade fellers” for 
his price ; and upon the Lord for health and 
strength. 

The city fellow — as far as they could see — 
set the price at which farm produce was sold, 
and the price at which groceries and clothing 
were bought. And, after all, it was brought 
out that few of the farmer boys who had be- 
come presidents had attained greatness in 
their rustic guise. Most of them had aban- 
189 


THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


doned agriculture long before fame found 
them. 

With these and similar arguments, puerile 
and fallacious no doubt, but weighty in their 
minds, the Winkles, in convention assembled, 
proceeded, and the conclusion of it all was 
that Johnnie should go to the city. 

Perhaps, if the other side of the subject 
could have been comprehended by them, if 
they could have realized the narrowness of 
the city’s streets and the murkiness of its 
atmosphere, contrasting these with the free- 
dom and purity of their pastoral environment, 
they might have decided otherwise ; but they 
were as ignorant of the disadvantages of the 
metropolis as are its philosophers of the coun- 
try’s faults. 

The final decision of the matter was of great 
moment to Johnnie, and his coming journey 
out into the world monopolized his every 
dream. Once more his relationship toward 
all familiar external things seemed completely 
changed. In his exaltation and self-impor- 
tance, the giants of other days dwindled and 


190 


THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


many domestic idols seemed to crumble into 
dust. 

Native fields and woodlands took on a 
plainer aspect. The graceful undulations of 
the landscape grew angular and flat, the old 
house appeared weather-beaten and squatty, 
and even Eph — faithful Eph, the infallible 
oracle of his childhood, became a hired-hand 
who used very bad language and wore 
shabby clothes. 

Yet, as the day of his departure drew near, 
Johnnie began to realize that it was only his 
mind that had exalted itself above these 
homely associations, and that his heart was 
secretly clinging the closer now to its olden 
friends. After all he had taken root in this 
lowly soil and the most cherished ambition 
to be transplanted could not overcome regret 
at leaving. 

During the last days of his stay at home, 
Johnnie struggled with conflicting emotions. 
He went among the horses and cows, calling 
them fondly by name and feeding them extra 
nubbins of corn. He slipped over the hill to 
where the brook, his cheerful little playmate, 
191 


THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


who got no older, nor more sedate with years, 
was idling its time away, and, sitting beside 
it, tossed chips to it and wondered if it would 
still run on the same when he was gone. It 
seemed impossible to imagine it down there 
in the quiet glen alone, singing those lulla- 
bies of old, and threading its way in and out 
among the calamus stalks, and himself so far 
away. 

Into the temple of the woods he took his 
way, and, in the calm of sylvan solitude, 
prayerfully recounted the joys and hopes, the 
regrets and fears of his little life, as a monk 
numbers his beads. 

When youth is constrained to look back- 
ward, the vanishing point of its perspective 
appears as distant as that of age. Its years 
are fewer, but they seem very long. 

At last the eventful morning came. John- 
nie rose early and went out to help with the 
chores, just as he had done when only an or- 
dinary farmer boy. He had resolved to 
adopt no lofty airs toward Eph and the stock 
on this last morning, even if he was almost a 
city gentleman. He would pass among them 
192 


T * 



. . IN THE 
CALM OF 
SYLVAN 


SOLITUDE 

P. 192 
















THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


carelessly, familiarly, as of yore, with no al- 
lusion in word or manner to his approaching 
promotion. 

He had decided to do this partly out of 
regard for their sensitive feelings, more, per- 
haps, out of regard for his own. 

But Eph had forestalled him, and the milk 
was already cooling on the shelves in the 
pantry. 

“I ’lowed I’d jist as well git my hand in,” 
Eph explained dryly when questioned. 

Somewhat resentful of this bald and unsen- 
timental bluntness, Johnnie betook himself to 
the hay-mow to indulge in one more hour of 
solemn meditation . U ppermost in his thoughts 
now was a strain of pity — largely uncalled for 
and wasted — for his father and Eph and all 
the friends and relatives he was leaving be- 
hind. How terribly they would miss him — 
how yearningly they would think of him and 
how eagerly they would await his distant re- 
turn. 

It would be a weary time to them — though 
short and satisfactory to himself — before he 
came home again. Five years! He would 

13 193 


THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


not think of returning to visit them under that 
time, and possibly not for ten. 

Tears suffused his eyes as he thought of his 
poor old father and Eph, sitting alone before 
the fire in the desolate winter evenings. 

Perhaps these morbid musings were ex- 
travagant and egotistical to a degree. But 
they were sorrowfully real ; and what boy is 
not a gentle egotist? 

At ten o’clock the wagon was driven up to 
the house, and Johnnie’s tin-bound trunk was 
silently loaded in. Then Aunt Mary, who 
had come “to pack him off,” brought out 
two boxes of lunch, a bag of apples, a bun- 
dle of miscellany and a faded umbrella, all of 
which she grouped about the trunk ; and then 
came Johnnie, himself, in linen shirt and new 
clothes, full of store-creases. 

As he came down the walk Pluto sprang 
from behind a clump of bushes, and, barking 
a merry challenge, jumped upon his boyish 
master, with a view to provoking a frolic. 
Poor Pluto was ignorant of the pathos of the 
occasion. Johnnie’s lips trembled as he 
looked down into the dog’s laughing eyes. 

194 


THE FLEDGLING’S FLIGHT 


Parting from that ever faithful friend was not 
the lightest of his farewells. 

“Well, sonny, be good to yourself,” called 
Eph carelessly as the wagon started. Aunt 
Mary smiled a cheery “good-bye” and then 
threw her apron over her face, while Mr. 
Winkle, on the seat at Johnnie’s side, clucked 
to the horses so vigorously that they almost 
broke into a run. 

And Johnnie Winkle, the little boy of end- 
less dreams and schemes, had flown from the 
downy home-nest, never to abide in it any 
more. 


195 


XXII 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 

The train, after groping its way with many 
stops and starts among endless groups of cot- 
tages, of flaming factories and dingy vacant 
lots, ran straight into a huge, dark building 
at last and came to a standstill. The brake- 
man called the name of the great city famil- 
iarly — on what intimate terms with it he 
seemed to be ! — and Johnnie, with his burden 
of baggage, crept out of the stuffy car into 
the seething, smoky pandemonium of the 
Grand Union Depot. 

In a sort of trance he passed through the 
iron gate with the crowds, and, after drifting 
about in various eddies, presently found him- 
self in an anteroom, where an obliging young 
man took charge of his bundles. 

He had been admonished to take a cab di- 
rect to Uncle Andrew’s, but it occurred to 
196 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


him that he might as well see the city inde- 
pendently first. 

For a time the vast magnificence of the 
metropolis appalled him ; but, within an hour, 
the reaction came, and he proudly felt him- 
self to be an integral part of the busy, alert 
life about him. Almost unconsciously he 
abandoned the shambling, leisurely gait of 
rusticity, and began to step forward with the 
erect, nervous manner of the urban. 

Thus he traversed street after street with 
no care for time, and no particular idea as 
to whither he was going, save that he was 
journeying from the old past into the novel 
and hopeful future. His immediate plans 
were indefinite, but he had a firm faith in ulti- 
mate success of some sort. 

As the day wore on he began to deliberate. 
He could not make up his mind just what 
vocation to adopt here in the promising city. 
This vexing question had been left unsettled 
when he came away, with the understanding 
that he would consult wise Uncle Andrew, 
and then write home before accepting any 
position. 


197 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


Johnnie had brought with him wondrous 
letters of recommendation and certificates of 
character, signed by the pastor and Squire 
Jeters, which, he doubted not, had magic 
power to unlock any gilded door ; but it per- 
plexed him to decide just where to apply. 

It would be very awkward and unfortunate, 
he thought, after he had won his way to the 
presidency of some great railway system for 
instance, to find that its duties were irksome 
and uncongenial. 

Toward evening he returned to the depot 
for his baggage and was much incensed when 
the accommodating young man, who had 
volunteered to care for it, demanded pay. 
Here, he thought, he had fallen into the 
clutches of one of “them there pesky sharp- 
ers,” that Eph had cautioned him against, 
the first thing ! This experience caused him 
to ask several cab-drivers their price and 
bargain with them shrewdly before engaging 
one to drive him to Uncle Andrew’s. 

After a fortnight’s weary search for an 
“opening,” Johnnie accepted the position of 
clerk in Uncle Andrew’s grocery store. It 
198 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


was not an ideal situation — not just what he 
had expected to obtain — but it was better 
than nothing. 

Uncle Andrew seemed to be the only busi- 
ness man in all the great city, upon whom 
the gilt-edge recommendations made any im- 
pression. 

Johnnie became a very good clerk in time, 
learning to concern himself, not so much with 
whether the position exactly suited him, as 
with whether he suited the position. 

As the winter went by a double metamor- 
phosis worked upon him. Nature was silently 
engaged in transforming the youth into the 
young man, while art busied herself more 
ostentatiously in making a city gentleman out 
of the callow country boy. 

Both nature and art succeeded in a degree. 
He grew taller and the downy rudiments of a 
mustache appeared on his lip, his voice 
registered lower and his hands and feet at- 
tained their maximum proportions. Like- 
wise he became dressy and adopted an habitual 
suave smile. In contact with customers he 
developed into a Chesterfield of courtesy, 
199 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


ever bowing and thanking them in a way that 
was fine to see. 

Nor did art stop at this. She led him into 
theaters and concert halls and Y. M. C. A. 
rooms, put cigarettes into his mouth, and 
parted his hair in the middle, even impelled 
him to mutilate the good old family name, 
and subscribe himself “Yours truly, John 
Wynkle,” when writing home. 

In short, art inveigled Johnnie into all sorts 
of dangerous places and all manner of ridicu- 
lous habits and, but for nature’s persistent 
care, might have ruined him beyond redemp- 
tion. 

But towards spring he tired of this artificial 
life. The fever of fast living cooled some- 
what, and, as his mind grew clear, his 
thoughts returned to his erstwhile, forgotten 
country home. He retired earlier each even- 
ing, and rose at daybreak every morning to 
take long, solitary walks in the park. 

It was April, according to the calendar, 
but the season’s tokens that greeted his eyes 
were few and feeble. Where were all the 
thrushes and meadow larks and whip-poor- 
200 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


wills, he wondered, and the wild flowers and 
the tree-toads and frogs? How he longed to 
hear a genuine frog concert again, such as 
used to pervade the April twilight at home. 

Whenever he closed his eyes, little pictures 
seemed to pass before him — visions of old 
familiar scenes down on the farm. Some- 
times there would appear a certain cozy 
corner of the orchard. Every leaf of every 
tree seemed to stand out boldly against the 
blue of the sky, and the minutest details, the 
bees that hummed in and out amid the foliage, 
the tiny ants and bugs that crept through the 
dew-wet grass, all were revealed to him with 
life-like distinctness. 

The apple trees budded and blossomed, 
scenting the air with an almost palpable 
perfume; little green apples came out and 
hung above him, and cherries grew crimson 
just beyond his reach. Blooms that could 
not be gathered, fruit that could not be 
plucked ! 

Now and then he would fancy himself in 
the heart of the old forest again, the cool, 
quiet, dimly-green depths, where life was as 
201 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


calm, as vague and unvexed as at the bottom 
of the sea. The winds that threw the tree- 
tops into verdant billows never disturbed the 
dark under-world beneath, and the light of 
the warmest sun became emerald-tinted and 
liquid-cool ere it reached the ground. 

Shadowy, dreamy sweet was the recollec- 
tion of these rustic retreats to Johnnie now, 
and their peace and tranquillity, which he had 
once deprecated, seemed the most blessed 
thing in all the world. Even thoughts of the 
corn-field were not altogether unpleasant. 
Compared to the drudgery of selling grocer- 
ies the labor of farming seemed an absolute 
diversion. 

The simple truth was that Johnnie had 
grown helplessly, miserably homesick. 

Uncle Andrew soon observed the air of ab- 
straction with which Johnnie dragged through 
his duties, and was not slow to guess its 
cause. Like Johnnie he had come to the city 
many years before, and had suffered the dis- 
tressing pangs which afflict every such prodi- 
gal more or less, and he knew their sovereign 
remedy. 


202 



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LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


Homesickness, of all diseases, is pre-emi- 
nently quickest cured by suitable change of 
scenery. 

One evening as Johnnie stood in the door 
gazing vacantly down the street and humming 
“Do They Miss Me at Home?” Uncle An- 
drew spoke: “John,” he asked, “don’t 
you think this close confinement is injuring 
your health a little?” 

Johnnie immediately improvised a deep, 
sonorous cough, and answered huskily, 
“Well, since you mention it, uncle, I fear it 
is.” 

“And don’t you believe a few weeks’ out- 
ing would help you?” 

“I’m sure, at least I rather think it would,” 
Johnnie replied, trying to restrain his eager- 
ness. 

“I’ve a mind to send you up north a 
while,” Uncle Andrew proceeded. (John- 
nie’s spirits fell.) 

“Or out west.” (There was a pause.) 

“ Or I might let you go out to your fath- 
er’s, if you think that would answer,” he 
concluded with deliberation. 

203 


LIFE IN A GREAT CITY 


Johnnie thought it would. There was a 
spring on his father’s place whose waters were 
distinctly medicinal. The air was remarkably 
pure, and there was a great deal of sunshine 
out that way, too. He was sure he would 
regain his health there.' 

Early the next morning Johnnie wended 
his way to the depot. It lacked two hours 
until train time, but he hurried breathlessly 
all the way. He was simply in a hurrying 
mood. 


204 


XXIII 


A MISFIT 

Henceforth he must be known as John. 
It would be improper, disrespectful, almost 
abusive to speak of the fine young gentleman 
from the city as Johnnie, who appeared at 
the Winkle place one day six months after 
Johnnie went away. 

Mr. Winkle and Eph were fanning them- 
selves on the front porch while the leisurely 
new housekeeper prepared dinner, when they 
noticed a nobbily dressed stranger approach- 
ing. In one hand he carried a slender cane 
and in the other a valise. “Books er light- 
nin’ rods,” observed Eph, “er, mebbe, 
jew’lry.” Pluto, who had been lying lazily 
in the shade, suddenly jumped to his feet, 
sniffed the air and bounded off to meet the 


newcomer. 


205 


A MISFIT 


“Better git! That there dawg lives on 
peddlers!” shouted Eph while Mr. Winkle 
tried to call Pluto back. But Pluto, instead 
of attacking the stranger, welcomed him by 
such mad waggings of the tail as he had not 
indulged in for months. 

Then Eph, whose instinct was only inferior 
to the dog’s in acuteness, gave a sudden 
whoop, and tossed his hat into the air. Mr. 
Winkle started to his feet in helpless bewilder- 
ment. “Well, durn my cats!” cried Eph, 
“If that ain't Sonny.” 

A moment later there was a general hearty 
handshaking, followed by an awkward pause. 
Then ensued a forced and desultory exchange 
of those common-place questions supposed to 
put people at their ease. It was comical and 
it was pathetic to hear father and son ask, 
“How’s yore health?” and “How’s yore 
Uncle Andy?” and “Is Aunt Mary’s folks 
well?” and then go on to comment on the 
weather. 

It must be remembered that John’s sojourn 
in the city, although not long, had almost 
completely covered the wonderful chrysalis 
206 


A MISFIT 


State. He had crept away to the city a cat- 
erpillar and had flown back a butterfly. 

To his father, who had thought of him all 
the while as Johnnie, it was no light shock to 
have him return unexpectedly as John. 

Dinner served to dissipate this painful 
“company air’’ somewhat and, during the 
afternoon, father and son grew quickly ac- 
quainted once more; yet a new respect for 
each other, not altogether unpleasant, per- 
sisted. 

Next morning at dawn John was up. He 
put on his old clothes again, although they 
seemed much shrunken, and discarded shoes 
entirely. He went joyfully out to the barn to 
renew old friendships. But the stock greeted 
him coldly. Stooping at old Brindle’s side, 
he bored his head into her flank and pro- 
ceeded to milk her; but he had barely begun 
when she kicked him over heartlessly. The 
horses shied at him and the chickens fled at 
his approach. 

One after another he visited all the old 
spots of which he had dreamed so fondly. 
Everything was just the same ; nothing had 
207 


A MISFIT 


changed. He affirmed this over and over to 
himself. Yet nothing seemed to affect him as 
he had expected it to do — as it had used to 
do. He looked across the purple meadow, up 
into the trees and listened to the thrush’s fa- 
miliar song — listened and lingered in vain for 
his heart to wake and respond as of yore. 
But the olden glamour was gone. 

At last he gave up and went slowly back to 
the house, bearing a weight of disappoint- 
ment that would never leave him. 

John Winkle — let us say Johnnie just once 
more — Johnnie Winkle had become a man; 
and only in vaguest dreams would the pristine 
gladness of the springtime ever thrill his heart 
again. 

Paradise lay behind him . Y et one supreme 
compensation still remained. Like the first 
boy who became a man, he was destined to 
depart from the Garden of Eden not alone, 
but hand in hand with a woman. 

“Say, son,” remarked Eph confidentially 
that evening — even he had dropped the dimin- 
utive form, and no longer said “sonny” — 


208 


A MISFIT 


‘'say, son, d’ye recollect the time ye paid a 
visit to ol’ Missus Meadows?” 

John had not forgotten. 

‘‘But how did you know about it, Eph?” 
he asked. 

‘‘Law, I alius know’d lots more’n I let 
on,” said Eph. “Ye didn’t know I follered 
ye all the way thar an’ back, but I did — I 
did so. An’ I know’d it wuzn’t the ol’ 
woman ye went to see, too.” 

John smiled. He would have been exas- 
perated if he had known this at the time ; but 
now it only amused him. 

“Well, what d’ye think?” Eph continued, 
“that there same young lady — her name wuz 
Mary Bell, wuzn’t it? Well, sir; she’s visit- 
in’ down to Tuckerses' now.” 

John smiled superiorly again. 

“Well, what of it?” he inquired. 

“Oh, nothin’ ; nothin’ at all, only she ast 
me if you recollected her. I jist thought I’d 
ort to mention it.” 

This information, so quaintly imparted, 
had little apparent effect upon John. But it 
was on his mind when he fell asleep that 
14 209 


A MISFIT 


night; visions of Mabel — the angelic little 
Mabel of old — mingled with his dreams and 
woke him in the morning. 

When he went into the woods that day a 
shadow of the child-sweetheart seemed to 
cling at his side. He tried not to notice it; 
struggled to throw it off and attempted to 
lose it by strolling through unfamiliar parts of 
the forest. But it would not be abandoned, 
and at last led him irresistibly to the very 
nook where he and the girl had loitered to- 
gether so long ago. 

He examined the spot curiously, half scorn- 
fully, but not without a shade of regret. 
They were mere foolish children together — 
he and Mabel — yet they were happy children, 
and he wished he could enjoy some things 
now as he did then. 

He recalled how he had once carved their 
initials upon a certain tree near by, and, 
seeking it out, found the letters still there. 

At first they seemed to laugh at him as 
they met his eyes, and yet, as he continued 
to look, seemed to weep and grow faint and 
blurred. 


210 


A MISFIT 


As he returned to the house the shadow 
still clung at his side; clung more firmly, 
more fondly than ever, and he no longer 
strove to shake it off. 

There was a friendly meeting between John 
and Mabel a few days later. Each thought 
the other had changed greatly ; and each se- 
cretly decided that the change was for the 
better. John was surprised to learn that Ma- 
bel had been a resident of a city suburb for 
years, and that during his stay in the city he 
had been separated from her by only a few 
miles. 

This knowledge rather vexed him when he 
thought of all the pleasant hours they might 
have spent together throughout the winter ; 
but when he thought of the times to come, 
after they should both return to the city, he 
did not mind. For he intended to go back 
soon again. The country had become as 
great a misfit for him as his old clothes. 

In truth, having once been forsaken by him 
it had now finally disowned him forever. 

When once more the afternoon train la- 
bored into the Grand Union Depot with John 
21 1 


A MISFIT 


as one of its passengers, he showed little evi- 
dence of excitement or awe. He had not 
gazed out of the window much during the 
journey. His time had been, and was still, 
thoroughly occupied with looking after his 
traveling companion, an elegant young lady. 
He escorted her through the crowd and at the 
door handed her into a cab with the assurance 
that he would call on her very soon. 

Some knowing people, whose gaze was at- 
tracted by them, thought they were brother 
and sister; and other more knowing people 
thought they were not. 


212 


XXIV 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 

It was four years later, and John Wynkle 
had ceased to be Johnnie Winkle so long ago 
and had become such a busy man that he 
seldom recalled the other life down on the 
old farm. He was a partner in the grocery 
business now, and a full-fledged and impor- 
tant citizen. He had cast his first vote, had 
paid taxes and joined a civic club. Moreover 
he had been “spoken of” as a possible candi- 
date for alderman, thereby having been ca- 
joled into subscribing liberally to the cam- 
paign fund. And what further evidence of 
manhood and respected citizenship could be 
required? 

Yet a new dignity was soon to be assumed 
by him — one before which all others sank into 
insignificance. He was about to be married. 
That was why, although a good citizen and 
213 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 


a safe and sound young man, he was known 
to be at present visionary, flighty, and totally 
irresponsible ; that was why, as he sat at his 
desk, he chewed the end of his penholder into 
splinters, spilled ink everywhere and tore up 
sheet after sheet of paper in an attempt to 
write a suitable and intelligible letter to his 
father. 

Of course one of the conventional cards 
telling how “Mr. and Mrs. G. W. Meadows 
request your presence,” etc., would be for- 
warded, but that would not suffice. “Dear 
Father,” he began once, “I have the honor 
to inform you that I am to be wedded on 

, and to request your attendance,” 

but that was too formal. Again he wrote, 
“Well, I am to be married. Strange but true ! 
And I want you and Aunt Mary and Eph and 
Pluto — ” but that was not formal enough. 

At last, however, he did succeed in com- 
posing a semi-rational note, in which he hoped 
all his old friends would come, and, at the 
time, he really did hope this, too, for he was 
about to be married. 

The strange accidents that befell John at 
214 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 


this period — the mistakes he made and the 
ridiculous antics he cut — were innumerable. 
Indeed the mental status of a young man in 
this predicament can never be successfully 
exploited. That it borders upon paranoia, 
dementia and melancholia at times can not be 
doubted. 

Hysteria — if men could have hysteria — 
might be an approximate diagnosis. Such 
persons do a great many unaccountable 
things, and develop peculiar traits. Perhaps 
the deed itself is often unaccountable. But 
the dreams devolving upon it — they are di- 
vine ! And if these young men exhibit odd 
and contradictory phases of mind, possibly it 
is because the mind is for the time in com- 
plete abeyance to the heart, because mental- 
ity has given way to sentiment. Even in 
these end-of-the-century days men are wont 
to resign themselves to dreams of love, just 
as if such delusions had not been tried by 
countless cynics and found vaporous and 
evanescent. 

But John Wynkle’s love was different from 
the kind heretofore known upon earth. It 
215 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 


was deeper and higher and stronger and more 
eternal. He knew it and Mabel knew it; 
what matter if the cynics did not? 

Their courtship had been personally con- 
ducted throughout. They had not met in a 
ball-room ; had not made love behind screens 
of green-house plants to the sound of waltz 
music while chaperones hovered near with 
fiercely ruffled feathers, like brooding hens. 

Night after night Mrs. Meadows had sur- 
rendered her modest parlor to them and kept 
herself discreetly out of sight. She could 
trust John Winkle, she told her neighbors; if 
she could not she would not have permitted 
her daughter to keep company with him at 
all. 

Certainly John and Mabel had become 
thoroughly acquainted, and perhaps their love 
was different from the passion of some of 
their aristocratic neighbors. 

Every twilight, now, John passed in Ma- 
bel’s presence. Almost every morning he 
ran out to tell her something or to ask her 
something he had forgotten the night before. 
Often they spent hours together at the win- 
216 


f 

THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 

dow in silence, watching the dusk turn to 
darkness — ^watching the stars as they took 
their unalterable positions in the sky, and life 
and love took on new and mysterious mean- 
ings as they watched. 

Sometimes they conversed upon the most 
unromantic subjects. Perhaps Mabel would 
ask her lover solicitously whether he was fond 
of muffles, or if he liked pan-cakes. Nor was 
this a procedure to be laughed at, for of such 
trifles is the kingdom of domestic bliss. 

The wedding day came at last, and with it, 
bright and early, the three best friends of lit- 
tle Johnnie Winkle of old, — his father. Aunt 
Mary and Eph. They came with the scent 
of rustic roses upon them, with the manners 
and dress of rural life, — unchanged by fash- 
ion, altered but little by time. Into the gro- 
cery they filed with hearty laugh and hand- 
shake, each bearing a mysterious parcel, for 
which Aunt Mary accounted by shrilly whis- 
pering, “Weddin’ presents!” 

At any other time John might have been 
embarrassed by their unexpected appearance. 


217 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 


but now he was only pleased and a trifle 
scared. 

All took dinner with him at Uncle An- 
drew’s. Aunt Mary contributed sundry eat- 
ables for the occasion fresh from the farm, 
which she had remembered as favorites of 
Johnnie’s. 

And what an array of by-gone incidents of 
John’s early life was called up and reviewed 
over the plates ! 

Each visitor had brought along some par- 
ticular anecdote concerning Johnnie. First 
his father told of Johnnie’s early passion for 
“projecks,” recounting several of his disas- 
trous experiments. 

Then Aunt Mary leaned back in her chair 
and gave an entertaining account of how 
Johnnie had once played circus performer for 
the delectation of the minister. “We wuz all 
settin’ there,” she said, “an’ the preacher a 
arguin’ with his maw about goin’ to shows, 
which she wuz upholdin’ an’ had the best of 
it, too, when, lo an’ behold, here come John- 
nie — an’ you ought to seen him ! Without a 
stitch on to mention — nothin’ but some old un- 
218 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 


dergarments” — here she puther handkerchief 
to her face and shook the floor with ponder- 
ous suppressed laughter, — “Goodness, he 
wuz a sight! — an’ there he wuz a-turnin’ 
somersets — an’ there we all wuz, an’ his poor 
maw scandalized speechless ! ’ ’ 

Next Eph, who had been non-committal 
and rather ill at ease heretofore, began to 
giggle and holding his knife aloft to command 
attention, introduced his choicest tale. He 
related how he had known all along that 
“Sonny wuz tuck with the Meadows girl’’; 
how he had followed the boy on his first visit 
to Meadowses’ ; and had peeped in at the 
window “unbeknownst an’ seen the ol’ lady 
entertainin’ him ’stid o’ Mary Bell.” 

Then they all laughed heartily again, John 
heartiest of all. 

The wedding ceremony passed, as do they 
all. The assemblage in the Meadows parlor 
chatted and laughed gaily, until some one 
whispered, “Here they come!” then there 
was a flutter, a hush, a gentle prayer, a few 
brief words, a blessing — sobs here and there, 
and a painful silence. 

219 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 


The minister broke the spell soon with jolly 
congratulations, and then Mrs. Meadows and 
Aunt Mary, wiping their eyes and laughing, 
pressed forward. 

The good old country custom — possibly 
unsanitary, but sweet — of kissing the bride 
was inaugurated, and Eph was one of the first 
to take advantage of it. The room buzzed 
with the conventional comments, “How love- 
ly she looked !” and “Did you notice how he 
trembled, poor fellow!” 

A lavish dinner (which Aunt Mary insisted 
on calling supper) was served, in the course 
of which somebody addressed the bride as 
Mrs. Winkle and she pretended not to hear; 
and everybody laughed at the incident just as 
if it had not occurred at all the weddings they 
had ever attended. 

Neither bride nor groom partook heartily 
of the dinner. The ethereal atmosphere sur- 
rounding them rendered the veriest “angel 
food” coarse and common. Moreover John 
in particular was still badly frightened. He 
had gone through it all in a hypnotic state of 
terror quaking with a strange unfounded fear. 

220 


THE MIRACLE OF MARRIAGE 


It was only after they had departed amid a 
shower of good-byes and rice, and were safely 
started on their “ tour,” that his senses re- 
turned, and he began to realize what he had 
done. And then the pride and tenderness 
and self-importance and general buoyancy 
which took possession of him — it was simply 
intoxicating. 

As the train rumbled on, exhausted by the 
excitement of it all, the girl at his side — his 
wife! — closed her eyes and leaned her head 
coyly against his shoulder; and, looking 
down into her sweet, confiding face, the only 
regret of John’s was that his mother could 
not have lived to see his bride. 


221 


XXV 


THE BRAND NEW BOY 

There had been babies before, there would 
be babies hereafter, but never such a baby as 
this one. His precocity was established with 
his first unterrified and highly intelligent 
glance at the ceiling ; his beauty was admit- 
ted by all from the beginning, and his amaz- 
ing lustiness and strength were demonstrated 
by the way he squealed and squirmed. There 
could be no question about it — he was an ex- 
traordinary infant. 

A great many burning questions did arise 
about him however. In the first place, it was 
a matter of earnest debate as to whom he 
most resembled. 

Every baby, as soon as born, resembles 
somebody. Sometimes it is its father, some- 
times a great grandparent or an uncle or a 
second cousin, but resemble some one, it 
222 



EPH SAID 
■’IT LOOKED 

right smart” 

p. 223 



THE BRAND NEW BOY 


must and will. Each acquaintance who 
called expressed an opinion upon this vital 
point — because it was expected of him. 

There are certain well-known though un- 
written laws governing such cases. In view- 
ing a baby for the first time it is one’s duty 
to begin by speaking of its sweetness, then 
to mention its plumpness, and then to com- 
mit one’s self as to what or whom it looks 
like. 

Ignorant or careless bachelors have made 
unforgiving enemies of former friends by 
neglecting to observe these rules. 

Grandma Meadows thought the baby was 
the very image of its papa. Uncle Andrew 
held to the opinion that it was the picture of 
Mabel; while Eph, when he made a pilgrim- 
age from the country, expressly to see it, 
said it “looked right smart” like his sister 
did when an infant. 

Another momentous question related to the 
exact color of the baby’s eyes. Every morn- 
ing the parents made renewed ocular exam- 
inations, and each time discovered a different 
hue. Then they were greatly perplexed as 
223 


THE BRAND NEW BOY 


to whether it would have curls and what its 
complexion would be. 

They dressed the infant in a weight of 
flannels that would have discouraged a really 
sentient being, and John brought it every- 
thing purchasable — rattles, rings and dolls, 
which he would wave in its face wildly by the 
hour, trying to teach it to * ‘notice things.’' 

In fact, the home-life of Mr. and Mrs. 
John Winkle was given entirely to develop- 
ing the wondrous child. A daintily bound 
“Album” was purchased in which to record 
minutely every step of its onward progress. 

This unique book had blank pages for the 
photographs and signatures of parents and 
nurse; a space in which to register the baby’s 
weight, color and condition ; numerous places 
for its pictures at different ages, a blank page 
for it to walk across in taking its first step, 
and a memorandum in which to record its 
first laugh, its first attack of colic, first tooth 
and first spasm. 

When not engaged in playing with the 
baby, John and Mabel were usually studying 
this record or talking about it. Nor was the 
224 


THE BRAND NEW BOY 


little tyrant content with monopolizing its 
parents’ attention, but must needs entertain 
every casual guest that called. 

“Did you hear about that awful fire last 
night?” Uncle Andrew would ask, coming in 
breathlessly. 

“No,” John would answer with a half- 
hearted attempt to appear interested. ‘ ‘Where 
was — look! Did you see that smile? Toot- 
sy wootsy, there, now! Oh, you didn’t 
look quick enough. Let’s try him again,” 
and he would contort his features madly and 
gouge the infant prodigy in the stomach with 
the fond hope of eliciting another rare and 
wonderful “goo-goo.” 

And the fire and all the unimportant tire- 
some world outside was forgotten, was re- 
nounced and tossed scornfully aside in favor 
of the one thing worth while in the whole uni- 
verse — the bouncing, brand new boy. 

Ever with the tenderest solicitude the anx- 
ious parents watched over the little cherub, 
waking or sleeping. How the mother’s heart 
palpitated if it happened to sneeze. How 


15 


225 


THE BRAND NEW BOY 


the father faltered if it chanced to cough. 
How unhappy were they both when it cried ! 

Its slightest indisposition filled them with 
wild alarm. Once the doctor was called in 
the middle of the night because the baby 
didn’t breathe right. 

It was, indeed, the most precious posses- 
sion that earthly life may know, the brightest 
jewel ever given into human keeping; and so 
was John once, and Mabel, and humble Eph, 
and so are all. 

One important matter, intimately connected 
with the new boy, remained a subject of dis- 
pute for months. This was his name. He 
had come into the world incognito, and there 
seemed to be no name anywhere that suited 
him . The back of the dictionary was searched 
through, the bible was exhausted and the long 
roll of relatives, living and dead, was called 
to no avail. 

Grandma insisted on an unusual name, papa 
wanted something common and the mother 
longed to call him something musical and 
sweet. A combination of all these qualities 
could not be found. 


226 


THE BRAND NEW BOY 


But as the baby grew more and more into 
the semblance of a real, live boy, the matter 
at last settled itself. It became evident that 
there was one name — and only one — that 
would set properly upon a boy with such 
merry blue eyes, such a saucily puckered 
mouth and a countenance so quaintly quizzi- 
cal, so mischievous, so innocent and bland — 
looking upon this complexity of features, 
they could only call him JOHNNiE. 


THE END. 




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